Point of Impact
by chicletsquared
Summary: Cassandra & Varric one-shots and what ifs - each chapter not necessarily in the same canon. Risqué/explicit chapters on Archive Of Our Own (same title, search user:Chiclet).
1. Wherein Varric Loses It For A Second

"Look at me."

"I am looking at you," she grits out, trying and failing to keep ahold of her own temper. If he'd just _listen_ , for once.

"No, Seeker, you're not. _Look at me_."

She glares down, her hand flexing in agitation on the pommel of her sword which is ridiculous, she's not going to draw the thing on him in the Great Hall, even if Maker knows somewhere she wants to. As if beating some actual sense into his thick skull would be as easy as that.

He's glaring right back at her though and something, she doesn't even know what in that moment, shifts, changes, and it's like her vision clarifies somehow. It's not like she hasn't been angry with Varric before and he with her but it's not heat this time, not frustration and mocking sarcasm or even disappointment on his face. She sees something new in the lines around his eyes, harshly prominent with his wide, normally expressive mouth compressed into a thin slash. And it's cold, as he never is, and it freezes the rest of the words in her throat.

He nods abruptly and his stance widens, grounding itself somehow in front of her. His hands spread, flick in a gesture that seems to indicate everything and nothing and he suddenly radiates a solidity she's never really acknowledged before. He hasn't changed but suddenly he has.

"This is what I am. I'm a _dwarf_ , Seeker. Better yet, I'm a _surface_ dwarf which according to a lot of people who care about these things means I'm the lowest of the socially low; no caste, no particular prospects, second son as well because I couldn't even get the birth order right of a disgraced House. Absolutely zero people from Orzammar even want to look at my face, let alone have a civil conversation with me even assuming I'd want to go there to, I don't know, embrace my roots." He hooks his thumbs into the silk sash around his waist and she all but see the flex in his shoulders. "So here I am, stuck where everything around me is built for people at least three feet taller than I am and I can't ignore that even if I tried. I don't smith, I don't mine, I fucking hate darkness and caves and all that other approved dwarvish bullshit. I don't even care for sparkly jewelry which is right out of the Dwarf Manual of Dwarf Things, although I gotta say, I look great in gold."

It might be a joke, the words are right, but the way he says them and the steady, unwavering lock of his eyes on hers says otherwise. And worse yet, his voice hasn't risen at all, still low and rumbling and completely Varric. As far as anyone else around them is concerned, they're still just having a conversation. Albeit one with her hand clenched around a hilt but that's not exactly uncommon now, is it?

"But let me tell you something. I know exactly how much weight I can pick up, how long I can hold it _and_ how far I can throw it and none of those numbers, _Seeker_ , are small. I have never lost my grip on anything, not once. My bones are dense as hell; I had a fucking wall fall on me once and I was beat up, let me tell you, but nothing broke whereas your human body would have been so much paste on the ground." His nostrils flare once as he takes a deep breath, she can see him trying to hold onto something, something that still hasn't escaped. It feels like she's forgotten to breathe herself, staring into his eyes. She had not expected this, this reaction, whatever it is, to her completely justified order. "You don't want to know how many metal cups I've crushed before I figured out how delicately I have to hold 'em so the beer doesn't get wasted. I'm careful _all the time_ because I know _exactly_ what I'm capable of."

It's a trick of the light or the imagination, the way his words are so raw but she can all but see it, the roots of his body curling into the ground as if drawing strength from the stone paving he stands on. She blinks and blinks again, but the impression stays. She's never looked at Varric through the lens of this before, the power of his body that she's just accepted, taken for granted, filed into the box called _dwarf; cheat, thief, liar._

"And you know what, Seeker?" He rocks forward on his toes, his hot gaze still locked on hers.

"What?"

"I know _who_ I am. And that's better than the rest put together." There's something deep and mocking in his eyes and she is horribly aware of how her thoughtless words have transgressed, to put that light there. But he shifts his shoulders then, as if shaking off water or an ill-fitting cloak and while something hooks his mouth into something that in a different moment might be a smile, his voice is suddenly deep and calm as he rocks back on his heels, away from her. "Now, I'm going to go wash the taste of this out of my mouth. Let's not do this ever again, okay?"

She watches him walk away, completely at a loss.


	2. Wherein Varric Takes An Unexpected Bath

Later, he tells himself it's because he was exhausted. Stuff like this just doesn't happen to him, he's better than that. Outside of some really spectacular drunken stunts, Varric Tethras simply doesn't lose his footing for any reason short of something collapsing out underneath him and even then it's a dice roll he often wins.

And hadn't he dodged every attack that Blight be damned giant had thrown? Every single one, including the first that none of them had even seen coming, because he's just that good. He'd rolled, unhooked and loaded Bianca and shot a complete salvo and all of it from zero to a dead run while the clearing they'd stepped into was rapidly being made wider with each swipe from a club the size of a tree because it _was_ a tree. How the hell they'd managed to stumble over something that big without hearing it first defied comprehension.

And not once had he tripped on anything. Not roots, not rocks, nothing. Even with the ground quakes as the thing had tried to squash either the Seeker or the Herald the easy way, peering myopically at the quick moving targets under its feet, he hadn't missed a beat. He'd been particularly proud of the tight cluster of bolts he'd managed to plant in the monster's knee that had brought it to down to, if not eye level, at least less mountain-versus-completely-startled-ants.

So losing his balance backwards as a rock had shifted under his foot while climbing the bank of the shallow river ford, working their painful way back to last evening's campsite was completely uncalled for. He'd windmilled but hadn't been able to save himself.

And worse yet, the Inquisitor had burst out laughing.

He'd sat up spluttering and cursing, three quarters of the way to being actually angry only to be greeted by the sight of the Herald of Andraste nearly doubled over and clutching a spindling tree that was in no way equipped to deal with it. And the water was _cold_ , damn it, up over his waist as he'd sprawled there on his ass glaring at her and the Herald was still laughing as if it was the funniest thing she'd seen since Maker knows when and higher up the bank, the Seeker was staring down at both of them with her shield arm pressed her to belly to keep it stable while they walked with her dark braid trailing miserably over her shoulder just like a snake trying to find a spot of warmth to curl up in and suddenly he was laughing too because the whole damned day was just that flavor of absurd.

The sound of Dorian sloshing up behind him muttering "If you people are quite done," hadn't helped either.

* * *

He tells himself it's because he has to clean Bianca thoroughly that he's taking his time stripping her apart. And it's true, he's not lying. Between the water and the mud and the hours that have passed since she took her bath, he needs to make sure everything is in good working order so he's in no hurry to finish, peeling her down methodically, automatically.

Across the campfire, he's watching the Inquisitor help the Seeker with her hair. It's damn near domestic.

Wide legged on the sagging tree trunk that probably fell sometime during the last Age, the Inquisitor has the other warrior wedged below her, Cassandra's back against the support as she gets the debris calmly picked out of her hair. Down to her padded tunic and leggings with her shield arm poulticed and bandaged to help with the bruises and strain, the Seeker might almost look relaxed if it wasn't for the scowl still compressed between her eyebrows.

"Careful, Seeker," he throws out. "Don't want it to freeze that way."

"If I want your opinion, Varric," is the reply after a moment, "I will give it to you."

The Inquisitor snorts before he can, pale fingers moving delicately through the black tufts. Catch, release. Catch, release. Varric puts another set of interlocked gears to the side and squints into the chambered groove left behind. He reaches without looking for the rag he has set aside.

He knows the Seeker is discomfited that she can't do it herself, can't lift her arm that far until the potion and the salve do their work and yet it's still somewhat endearing to watch. The Herald is as blond as the Seeker is dark and the contrast is interesting in the twilight that will very quickly be true darkness. Everyone is tired and he can see it on their faces, drowsy with heat and the last remnants of ebbing fear. Dorian has already retired to a tent after having eaten his portion of stew, saying something about last watch, but they'd all seen his hands trembling. Nobody had been stupid enough to mention it. The mage had pulled a lot of fire out of seemingly nowhere in those first desperate seconds.

Cassandra sighs and tilts her head to the side, a small sound as the Herald starts to unwind her braid finally, dragging her fingers through it to remove the snags. A piece of wood chooses that moment to snap sharply.

"Maker, but that feels good," she says. "Thank you for this."

"It's no problem. I spent a couple of weeks once with enough sand in my hair to build a small castle with." The warrior's voice is amused. "I would have tossed Dorian to the blood mages if somebody had promised me a comb and a bath." The Inquisitor's voice is low enough but Varric still looks over at the tents. There's no answering rebuttal however so Dorian is probably already asleep.

"I know how you feel," says Cassandra. "I keep my hair short for that reason but it is still a nuisance."

"I gotta ask, Seeker," he says without considering it first, his fingers busy along with, apparently, his mouth. "Why do you keep any of it long at all?" He waves at hand at nothing in particular, the rag suspended in it. "This has got to happen a bunch to you."

The sound the Seeker makes isn't exactly a growl but it's hard to classify what it is, really, other than condescending. "It is functional."

The Herald's fingers have the braid half apart, fingers splitting the long length of it from scalp to tip. The dark trail reaches nearly to Cassandra's breast with the kinked waves picking up the firelight in patches. Varric looks down at his crossbow and tries to remember where he was with it. Cassandra's hair looks surprisingly tactile, it's almost as if he can feel it running over his fingers instead. He wipes down the stock of the wood to try and rub the sensation away.

"I have to say, I don't see how," he replies. Surprisingly it's the Herald that answers.

"Padding." She picks out a few more twigs, a small leaf, eyeing them critically before flicking them into the fire. "Helmets never fit right unless they're specifically hammered to you - and even then they don't fit right. Doesn't matter what they're lined with, or what you stuff 'em with either, there's always something that presses in the wrong spot. Wearing braids gives some extra cushion, distributes the weight around."

"Huh," he says. "Never thought of that."

"Most don't," says Cassandra, "which is unfortunate since a bad fitting helmet is a trial. Braids should be more in fashion than they are."

"Well," Varric says, "we can always slip a note to the Orlesians for next season, there's still time. Start a trend. Maybe rake in some royalties and pay off Big Nasty into an early retirement."

A frown for his levity flashes across Cassandra's face but the Herald simply laughs. "Ponytails are good too if they're long enough to wind up top, if a bit more slippy. Or you know, you can just skip the helmet thing altogether and hope you're fast." She winks at Varric even as her rough fingers start to rebraid Cassandra's hair, pulling gently.

Varric quells a flash of odd disappointment. With her hair down, the Seeker had looked different somehow, just that little bit less severe and he was kind of liking it. It doesn't help that her temple is now resting on the Herald's knee with her eyes half closed, exposing the long line of her neck.

"Also," says Cassandra unexpectedly, "it is personal."

Varric blinks. "Oh?"

The Seeker shifts, as if already regretting her words but her voice is measured across the fire. "When I was a little girl, my hair was entirely braids, it is - was - very Neverran. I do not know if it is still in vogue. They were down to my waist and very heavy and I did not enjoy them. When I joined the Seekers I cut them all off. It was very freeing."

And damn him, he can almost see it. Little Lady Cassandra rises in his mind's eye, black glossy braids down her back, ribbons in them maybe. Red maybe, or sapphire - no, definitely cobalt blue, and probably satin. Did somebody ever pull her by them? He imagines a hand tugging on her hair, burying itself in the dark mass of it and he swallows dryly for no reason he can name.

But the Seeker thankfully isn't privvy to what's in his head, her own nose wrinkling softly at what is obviously a distant memory. "Yet I found that as I grew older, I thought of myself sometimes as I was then, when I was not always a Seeker or so deeply involved in Chantry politics or carrying out the will of Most Holy. So I grew out enough hair for a braid, to remind me of times when the worst I had to fear was being scolded for a muddy dress. It is...a comfort to remember that the world can still have those moments."

"So functionally personal." He clears his throat, staring down without really seeing anything, fingers lifting out another piece without his mind having to be involved in the process. "I gotta say Seeker, that's very you."

"It is, I suppose," she agrees without discernible inflection. The fire pops again, settling and the Herald continues, bent over her work.

It is the work of moments and the braid is finished and coiled on the Seeker's head, back in its accustomed place and the Seeker is just the Seeker again, a woman with a scarred face and a weary expression.

"And on that note, I'm to bed," says the Herald, groaning as she stands. She offers a forearm to Cassandra who accepts awkwardly on her good side, suffering herself to be hauled to her feet. "Cassandra?"

"I, also, if that is okay. Varric, you are good with first watch?"

He waves a broad hand. "Sleep well, ladies. I'll keep the bears and giants and various bugs entertained for awhile longer."

He watches as they disappear into the tent they share, the flap falling behind them. He looks down at Bianca, cradled in his arms, half undressed as she is, her pieces gleaming.

"Just you and me now, baby." He bends to his work and tries really hard not to think about anything at all except where caked mud might still be wedged.


	3. Wherein Cassandra Has A Bad Dream

She wakes up in a panic as she hasn't done in years.

It hammers over her heart, bruising. The slick taste of wood and terror fills her mouth and she swallows it down, choking. Blood, so much blood. Soaking into his hair like a wick, impossible to tell where it ends and his shirt begins.

Out of reach, his crossbow too is shattered. The white slivers stick up through the drifts like his ribs and she would scream if she could remember how. Contorted, torn apart, flung away to sprawl gracelessly on the snow.

His eyes are open, blind to the sky.

Her legs flash, covering distance. There are giggles, shocked half-words that she chooses not to hear as she crosses the Great Hall. A courtier bows in the corner of her eye, perhaps mockingly in a swirl of muted color. It is not important. When did the keep get so Maker be damned _big_? It seems to take forever.

She takes the stairs two at a time. She doesn't knock, doesn't even think to wonder if it will be locked.

She's never been here before. There is a smeared impression of a bed, haphazard pillows and brocade. A jumbled bookcase, the desk she knows would have to be here but none of those things have details.

There's confusion on his face as he turns away from the window. Two strides and she drops to her knees, presses her face to his chest, tangling her fingers into his tunic. Red, he always wears red and fear leaps again.

"Seeker?"

He doesn't know what to do with his hands even she tightens hers, breathing him in.

"You were dead. I dreamed you were dead."

But he's not, alive and solid and just there, his warmth beating against her skin, the scent of him filling her nostrils, chasing away the taste of anything else. The chuckle she's grown to expect _(love need)_ drifts down to settle on her hair.

"Helluva way to start the morning, I agree." His hands cup her face then and there is a kiss on her forehead. Her fingers curve around his wrists. Then his mouth is on hers and it's sweet, sweet as honey, the taste of him, the solid bulk of his body it's own reassurance. It radiates, turns fear into something else, a different kind of hammer. He laughs again, soft against her face and she's drowning in the kiss.

"Sorry, Seeker. But you have to wake up now."

And she does.


	4. Whereas Cassandra Sucks At Bluffing

"Have you ever considered," she says wearily, "that I will never understand and you are wasting both our times?"

"With me as a teacher? Nah." His fingers shuffle the deck again, the sound hypnotic. "But if it was easy, everybody would be good at it now, wouldn't they?"

"Varric."

"Seeker."

She pinches the bridge of her nose, rocking back on her chair legs in frustration as he deals yet another hand onto the scarred wood between them. He sits on her left at the head of the table, almost close enough to touch, ostensibly so that he can lean over and look at her cards when she needs help which so far has ranged between _often_ and _very often_. While the mid afternoon sun streaking across the rough planks of the tavern floor is giving a warm glaze to everything, and the hour has the place nearly emptied of watchers, she still feels exposed. She flexes her shoulders, trying to forestall the urge to hunch.

"I do not. Understand. There are too many rules and they keep changing."

"Not a big fan of that, I take it?" His voice is sympathetic enough but her irked pride is sure that somewhere he is laughing at her clumsy attempts.

"No."

"C'mon, Seeker, give yourself a break here. They don't actually, you know, change. There's just a lot of them to take in." He winks, putting the rest of the deck down between them before taking another healthy swig from the tankard because of course Varric needs to have a drink at hand. Maker forbid he save it for a more seemly hour. "I only make it look easy because I've been playing my entire life. Or least all the life I feel like remembering."

It's an odd statement but before she can do anything with it, he picks up his cards so perforce she must as well. She stares at the complicated pictures and tries to make sense of what she's seeing. Already the concentration is giving her a vague headache.

"Okay, easy question. Name any card ranked higher than a Knight of Sacrifice." He arranges the order of his hand, fingers hesitating over one before moving it, then moving it back. That probably means something only she has no idea what.

"Any Angel," she replies automatically. This is one she'd had drilled into her enough to grasp. "Unless there are two reversed Angels down already." She looks at Varric who is pursing his lips and she can see the shake of his head already forming. She groans, leaning further back in the chair as if trying to distance herself from this farce. The cards are smooth under her fingers from use and gilt winks in the design of two of them. That probably means something too and she scowls at them.

"This is foolish."

"You almost had it. Any reversed Angel of either Blood or Chains, but Mercy, Truth or Charity wouldn't count."

"And why not?"

"Because it's a Sacrifice, Seeker. Not a lot Charity is going to be able to do to cancel that out. Or Mercy. Or Truth for that matter."

She huffs. "I beg to differ. If one is to… to sacrifice oneself, then there is no better reason than truth." She finds two Serpents and puts them together.

Varric laughs, a deep, impulsive sound and she glares at him, nonplussed. His eyes are crinkled with whatever he finds so amusing and she falters a little, finding herself trapped by the open expression on his face. It's not as if Varric doesn't laugh often and loudly, but still, there is always something about it that utterly disarms her. Even if it does seem to be at her expense at the moment. She tries scowling again, in case it will help.

"Now why didn't I know you'd say that?" He raises his eyes up as if appealing to the Maker. "Since you are, after all, the Seeker of _exactly that_. Did you know your mouth pursed up like you'd just eaten a lemon?" He waggles his eyebrows at her. "I bet that's your answer to everything."

"You are terrible. Just because you treat it as casually as… as you do, does not mean… oh. I don't know why I even try to explain."

"Now, now, Seeker. Truth isn't the answer to _all_ of life's questions, you know." She rolls her eyes at the nearly salacious tone of voice he injects into that since it's glaringly obvious he's making reference to his tendency to deal in everything but. Why he finds that so amusing all of a sudden is beyond her. She decides to pointedly ignore it. "But yeah, in this case? Definitely doesn't cancel Sacrifice. This is Wicked Grace, not Chantry Indoctrination For Beginning Seekers."

She finds her lips quirking. Perhaps it is a little funny. "I shall endeavour to remember."

They take turns drawing cards and she gnaws the inside of her lip with each addition, struggling to keep any of it straight in her head. The longer the game goes on, of course, the more complex the links between cards on the table as she and Varric arrange, build and discard the stacks between them. Finally she draws the Angel of Death and with relief, puts it on top of the deck. She puts her hidden cards down even as he does and they both hunker over the final totals.

"Bah," she growls, disgusted with herself again. She rocks back harshly in the chair, her hands slapping down. She had thought she'd done better.

Her traitor foot, hooked around a table leg all this time, slips and there is a split second of fear, the lurch in her throat even as her hands come up to grab something, anything as she tips backwards.

Her fingers dig into Varric's bicep.

The dwarf lunged so fast she hadn't even registered it, his large hand now locked around the back of the chair. His heavy face is suddenly all she can see, outstretched as he is across the corner of the table to prevent her fall. Her heart, only just catching up to the danger, thumps heavily once and then again.

She has been close to Varric before and thought nothing of it. He is a familiar figure to her, they have touched casually many times in the course of their duties. They have shared the same bowl in camp, arms and hands brushing. She has seen him half stripped, his wounds being tended; she has checked him herself, a rough soldier's inspection in absence of anyone else with more skill. She's seen him returning after washing at unknown streams, his hair loosely plastered to his skull and the worst of the dirt scraped off. She has helped him over many obstacles with the unspoken offer of a forearm, her longer legs and reach just another tool to be leveraged even as his shorter stature has granted him the advantage elsewhere.

But this is much too close.

Because she can suddenly see the lighter flecks in his eyes, unguarded in this instant, shifting leaf green against the brown. The strong column of his throat rises, the swing of the chain around his neck with its heavy gold loop bumping against his chest, only just settling again. His skin is shockingly warm through the silk of his shirt. It is nearly an embrace.

The subtle scent of his body touches her face. Clean, sharp, spicy. _Varric_.

Her fingers flex on the corded muscle of his arm without thought and she can feel it tense like stone under her fingertips. It ripples through his body, across his face, she can all but see the path it travels. Without volition her hand starts to slide up, chasing.

He pulls back, dragging her chair back down. The thump as all four legs hit the ground seems terribly final, as small as sound as it is.

"Careful, Seeker. Don't want to break your head open."

Her hand drops to the table as his arm falls away and she takes a deep breath, turning her face away. "No. Truly." And then belatedly, "Thank you."

He sprawls back in his chair and picks up the deck, scraping the scattered cards back into an untidy pile. "No problem." He starts to shuffle once more, his fingers as deft as before, the rhythm unhurried. "Another game, Seeker?"

She is already shaking her head, shoving the chair back gracelessly. She has never been more conscious of her height as in this moment, the sheer length of her own body in comparison to his as she stands. Her hand flexes in unwilling agitation. Silk. Heat. "No. I… I must go. Thank you for the lessons.

"Again, no problem. Anytime."

She leaves, regardless if it is abrupt, regardless of what he thinks. Whatever she saw, she isn't sure it won't be on her face too and that she will not abide.


	5. Varric Discovers His Heart's Desire

The outpost they've reached is large; larger than he's ever seen and better organized as well. Somewhere he feels like he ought to be offended by the regimented officiousness of the whole thing but he can't summon up the energy to feel more than a numb gratefulness to the Orlesian need to coordinate the ass end of everywhere. The fact that the place isn't even remotely defensible hasn't stopped them from pretending that it is, and if that doesn't pretty much say everything that anyone ever needs to know about the collective mindset that is Orlais, he doesn't know what does.

There are even guard rotations, of all things, moving back and forth with a determined sort of purpose as if there weren't more gap than enclosure left of the original structure. The camp itself is tidily placed within what was probably a keep courtyard at some point in the long distant past, the cracked remnants of the walls providing at least some wind break from the steadily falling snow. Braziers have been placed every so often so maybe there's a shot that nobody freezes to death before they can exchange the proper passwords at the cross over points. He knows there have to be passwords; the whole blighted nation lives on coded messages and clandestine behaviour. If they're here long enough he might even rouse himself to make the effort to learn them.

Over his left shoulder the tents march solemnly in formation, little ice-ward runes on their ridge poles twinkling like tiny stars. It's a pretty effect, especially when a rush of wind curls up along the ground, throwing even more loose white stuff into the air like an excited child. Emprise du Lion is a magical wonderland and Varric hunkers closer to his chosen bonfire, rubbing his chapped hands over and over pretending to get some feeling back into his fingers.

Problem is that there just isn't enough usable wood to keep the fires going properly and the heat thrown off by the veilfire woven into the actual flames isn't enough to write home about. Assuming he'll ever write again. Assuming he gets out of here with his mind intact enough to want to.

He shifts his shoulders, trying to settle his fleece lined duster a little closer to his skin. The crunching of the snow behind him is enough warning that he doesn't flinch when somebody sits next to him on the rough hewn bench, settling with a creak of protesting leather. The warrior peels her gloves off and pale hands stretch out to the fire, chasing the same thing he is.

"I hate this place already."

"Couldn't have said it better myself."

The Inquisitor sighs, breath puffing out. "Don't know about that, Varric. You've usually got much better insults tucked up your sleeve for these kinds of occasions."

"Not this time. I pretty much just hate this place too."

"I'd ask you again why we're here but that's even more depressing than being here at all."

He has a grin for that, enough to crack the skin of his face at least. "Hey, look on the bright side. We could still be bivouacked ten miles from here, hugging a mountain like we're about to propose marriage."

The Herald groans. "Hey, it was a good spot."

"If you're into hugging mountains, sure."

"The captain here says they can have us provisioned by tomorrow and as much as I'd like to stay and enjoy the last bit of civilization we're going to see for awhile, I think we'd better take them on the not so subtle offer." The warrior switches subjects easily, as she often does, and Varric nods. "He hasn't said it exactly but I get the impression they're stretched pretty thin and we're enough of a dent into the supplies that he's already counting on his fingers when the next supply caravan is likely to make it."

"Yeah. Any army marches on its stomach and for a skinny human, you sure eat a bunch."

"Thanks, Varric."

"Anytime, Inquisitor."

"Anytime what?"

He blames the cold and the exhaustion but he hadn't heard Cassandra walk up and her appearance across the fire is startling. Her face looks as pinched as he feels, dark skin contrasting with the drifting snowflakes. Not for the first time, he wonders if she appreciates the cold as much as he does, what with Nevarra being on the edge of the the Silent Plains where he's heard rumors that things just lay down and die in the shade just to get some relief. She never complains though. Not at Skyhold and not even here, where even the snow complains about the snow, so far by sliding down rock faces on top of them.

Still, if he was the descriptive sort and the Seeker not equipped with a spine of pure dragonbone, he might say she collapses on the seat like a sack of potatoes. As it is she merely settles herself across from them both, one eyebrow tilting up.

The Inquisitor waves her unmarked hand. "Varric says I eat too much."

"Now, now, I didn't say that. Exactly."

"You implied. You know how much energy it takes to swing this axe overhand and not miss?" The weapon in question is close to four feet of haft alone and he'd shudder if he could.

"More than I want to think about at the moment. I retract the implication I didn't make."

"Apology accepted. Cassandra, I'd like to get started after whatever passes for first meal around here. They can feed us at least once more before we set off again." Her lips thin but whatever she's thinking, she doesn't voice it. Her voice becomes brisk again. "Everyone make sure to check your packs before we leave, I don't want to start out shorted on anything essential this time."

Cassandra nods and makes a noise of, if not acceptance, at least acknowledgement. For a few minutes they all stare into the not-warm-enough fire. Varric rubs his palms together again, feeling the calluses catch on each other in a far-away feeling. Whatever the Inquisitor and Seeker are thinking in turn, they aren't sharing either.

Finally the Inquisitor sighs and stands, hauling her gloves back on with a deliberate sort of grace. "I'm going to check on Dorian and see if he's had any luck adapting that fire spell before I turn in. It would be great if just one thing went super right before we're deep into things, you know?" She drops a hand on Varric's shoulder as she turns although he can barely feel it through the layers. "See you both tomorrow. Try and get some sleep."

Silence descends again and he thinks he should break it somehow, only he doesn't know what to say. He's all out of his own jokes at the moment and the easy camaraderie brought by the Herald has disappeared with her.

"Varric."

He looks up without realizing he's dropped his gaze to look at the Seeker. "Yes?"

"I.. apologize if this is abrupt. Can you really tell where the nearest red lyrium is? I hope you can appreciate that I do not wish us to flounder without direction out here."

He rubs his hand over his face and considers his options. Then he simply points. "There." He swings his arm and points again, thick finger stabbing. "And there, but farther." And he points again for a third time, opening his hand and wiggling his fingers in a vague motion. "And somewhere over there too but it's not super specific."

"How do you know?" Her voice is honestly curious and that alone keeps him from snapping at her. It's not her fault, he reminds himself. It's probably not even his fault.

"I just do." Regardless of his intentions, it comes out as a growl. He shifts his feet a little wider and sighs, before trying again. "Sorry. Stuff has me on edge. Yes, I know exactly where it is. No, I don't know why, not really, but it's why I invited myself along as much as I seriously regret it right now."

"Do all dwarves…?"

"Don't know that either, Seeker." He shakes his head, thinks better of it, and then just shrugs. "We're naturally resistant to the regular stuff, everybody knows that. But the Orzammar clans that mine it swear they can hear it right through the stone. It's how they know which direction to start digging. Yet Bianca..." He hesitates, then curses himself for tripping over the name. His control really isn't the best at the moment. He starts again. "Bianca doesn't react to the red stuff like I do, even though it's scary piled on top of stupid on top of just plain horribly bad. She told me it was more like an annoying buzz, kind of like a mosquito just out of swatting range when she was close to the stuff. That's not what I'm hearing and I know for a fact that she can't pinpoint it like I can."

"What is it to you then? What do you hear?"

His shoulders tighten and he can't seem to straighten them out. "It sings, Seeker. Constantly. It's like a rash somewhere you just can't scratch, a melody you can't shake. And the closer I am, the better it sounds. I swear there are words in it, like somebody is whispering in another language that if I just… that I could understand if I just convinced myself I could."

"That must be difficult." Her voice is measured but for Cassandra it's dripping with concern and it strikes him oddly, unexpectedly close to the heart. He shrugs that off as well because there's nothing there beyond what she'd feel for any of the others. The Seeker has a tendency to mother hen everybody in her immediate vicinity, himself included when she's not busy being mad at him for all his various infractions, both real and imagined.

"You have no idea. Is it me? Is it something to do with being a Tethras? Maker knows Bertrand took to it like a duck to water." He hears the bitterness creeping into his voice again, realizes he's dropped his gaze again and forces himself to look up across the fire. "Don't worry so much, Seeker. There is no way I'll lose track of it, trust me. Consider me your personal crow for the duration; I'll take us right to the stuff and we're going to smash it all into so much dust."

* * *

The weather hasn't gotten any better over the last couple of weeks but it hasn't gotten all that much worse either. A couple of small storms that laid down yet more snow since you can never have too much of a good thing, a few days with enough wind to scour his face of several layers of skin that he probably didn't need anyways but that's been about it. Small blessings from above, right? Varric does his level best to follow directly in the footprints of the Seeker and the Herald as they choose a path leading along the base of the latest ridge, forging ahead of both him and Dorian. Stumbling off the path they're making will have him hip deep in the drifts again and that he doesn't need right now, or ever quite frankly.

But damn them for having such long strides. His thighs are never going to stop burning, he's sure of it.

He doesn't realize he's spoken out loud until Dorian laughs. He shoots a sour glance over his shoulder.

"Laugh it up, Sparkler. Don't see you swanning through this stuff like you're dancing the remigold on marble floors either."

The mage waves a casual hand. "I'm allergic to excessive effort. I'm perfectly content to let our two heroes do the hard work since they're so beautifully suited for it." In deference to the relatively mild weather at the moment, his fur lined hood is down and he can see the smile on the man's face. Dorian's stride is confident, if slow. "And admit it, Varric, the view is quite aesthetically pleasing from this angle."

Varric looks ahead and suppresses a sigh. Because when Dorian's right, he's right.

The Herald is in the lead at the moment, indefatigably moving through the drifts even as she probes ahead with a long pole to check for deeper pockets that could hang everyone up. Her overcoat has been messily rolled to hang from her hip by straps hooked to her weapons belt. Through the patchy tree line they're generally skirting, the sunlight catches on her honey hair to spark little glories and her breath and exposed skin steam with exertion. If this was a painting, she'd be some sort of pale avenging demon descending upon the hapless mortals from above, wreathed in white smoke. Her hips and thighs are definitely doing some interesting things beneath the muted jingle of her scale mail tunic.

In contrast, Cassandra has kept her dark cloak on but like Dorian has dropped the hood. She ghosts precisely behind the Inquisitor, dark on black on implacable, her armored weight helping to pack the snow into something traversable. If the pace is bothering her, nothing in her movements betrays it. Varric can only imagine what her hips are doing and that's the worst part of it. His imagination has a tendency to run away with him when he can't see things.

As if aware of his thoughts on her, the Seeker picks that moment to look back at both of them. He raises a hand in greeting, trying to move a little faster.

She frowns at something she sees though and stops, turning to call back the Herald. A few minutes later, they're all standing together and Varric stamps his feet a few times, swinging his arms. Wouldn't do to cool down too fast.

"We have to be close. Varric?"

He nods at the Seeker, keeping his face impassive. "Nearly on top of it, really. If we go up right here, we can probably fall on top of it on the other side."

Everybody looks of course, but the ridge of stone they're traveling along still isn't showing any signs of a path they can actually use to get over the blocking hump of rock.

The first three deposits had been deceptively easy, pretty much out in the open after a bit of effort and they'd shattered beautifully under the pressure of his explosive bolts and Dorian's casually impressive destruction. They hadn't even had to get that close for which he is profoundly grateful. This one however is more than making up for it though in pretty much every way possible.

They've been tracking it for days now, working their way closer and closer, switching and backtracking as various approaches had dead ended into impassable terrain or steep ravines or some combination of both. Emprise du Lion, he'd decided awhile back, was obviously designed by the sadistic hand of a maniac god. Which pretty much described most of them when you got down to it but the subtleties of his observation appears to have made little impression on his travelling companions.

More to the point, they're uselessly close enough set his teeth on shivering edge and after four long days and even longer nights, they still haven't actually found the Maker blasted thing. He's just given up on sleeping until they get to it. Standing here doing nothing but talking isn't helping either. He can feel the lyrium thrumming at him right through the stone, dancing along every one of his bones.

Varric shifts his weight and re-settles his crossbow, trying to distract himself. He swings his arms a few more times. The Inquisitor scratches the back of her oblivious neck, still looking up the ridge before squinting over at the weak, diffused sun. "Okay, then," she says finally. "We're going to go for another… two fingers of light I think, and if we still haven't found a good way up, we're going back to the last camp and we'll try around the other way tomorrow."

It's not like that's a different plan than they were already doing but the small rest is something at least. This time when they set off again, Cassandra takes the lead, letting the other woman take a break from path stomping. They travel in single file for an hour, barely speaking. The snow crunches, the world glitters and Varric does his best to keep imagining what's happening under the Seeker's clothes. It's almost enough.

Her shout pulls his attention up from the place it's drifted into. He stumbles and realises after a few seconds that he'd nearly been in fugue state. She's staring up and as they all close the distance they'd straggled along, he can see what she's seeing.

At some point in the past a portion of the ridge ahead had collapsed, leaving behind a sloping pile of scree along the path of travel. Instead of rising stone and no footholds, it was a reasonable, if steep incline. Better yet, it was overgrown with small trees taking advantage of the loosened soil and dirt and even scrub brush digging its own footholds into the bounty. It was damned near perfect - with some careful footwork, they could probably get up this. He looks over at the Herald but she's already shaking out her jacket and putting it back on. Right. She obviously doesn't want to be overbalanced as they climb.

"Varric, you go first," the Inquisitor is saying. "Then Dorian, Cass and then me."

"Why does he get to go first?" Dorian's voice sounds rusty with disuse, and the man coughs and tries again. "I'm as light as a halla in comparison to you burly brontos. I could be there and back before you know it."

She grins and not for the first time Varric wonders if the Herald is sweet on the Tevinter altus. There's just something about the way her smile slides onto her face when she talks to him, that tiny edge of ever so eager sweetness. "Because, you darling thing, you might be a golden halla of air and clouds but Varric knows how to move on treacherous terrain pretty much anywhere. Right, Varric?"

"You know it." He's already picked up how he's going to get up most of the way, eyes skipping from spot to spot. "But how come nobody ever calls me a golden halla?"

"You don't have the wardrobe for it, my dear dwarf."

"You got me there, Sparkler."

"So our resident sneak goes first," interrupts the Inquisitor, "then you, Dorian, since you are so damned graceful I can't stand it, then Cassandra. I'll bring up the rear because I'm quite frankly the one most likely to slip and I'm not taking out anybody with me if I'm dead last. If Cass slips, I'm also the one most likely to survive the impact." She makes a point of flexing in her armor and even Varric finds a chuckle for that, as weak as it is. Cassandra looks over at him with a frown on her face but he ignores it, already starting to move.

He wants this over with bad enough to taste it. He starts to climb.

It's difficult but not beyond him. City dwarf he might be but he knows how to walk, how to test his steps before committing them, feeling the ground beneath his feet as if it's a living creature which, with the wrong footstep, it will be. It's not the same as negotiating a trade dispute or slipping around a column to line up a back shot on an unsuspecting target but he has indeed learned to walk wherever he needs to.

Below, Dorian climbs with nearly as much grace, obviously trying to follow the line he's picked out across the slope. The two heavily armored women labour upwards below him in a staggered line. Varric keeps going, and when he finally looks up, he realises they're nearly there. He reaches for another grip on a sapling tree to test its strength as an anchor.

He hears the curse a half second before anything else. He looks down just to time to see Dorian slip, and he's helpless to do anything as the mage slides under the crumbling pressure of a weak foothold, scrabbling to get a stable handful of anything as he falls. The sound of shifting stone and earth is frightening and for a heartbeat all he can see is what will happen if the entire slip face goes, burying all of them at the bottom.

But luck is with them. Cassandra has her feet planted, one hand sunk into the root system of the nearby scrubs and she gets her other hand on the Tevinter as he slides past her in a shower of pebbles and dirt. She holds on somehow and miraculously nothing further gives. The small landslide slows and then trickles to a pattering stop. Varric can see the white oval face of the Inquisitor far below, staring up.

"Everybody okay?" he shouts down.

"Dorian?" In answer to the Seeker, the mage sets his knee on the slope and attempts to rise slowly. Varric can't hear the hiss of pain but he can imagine it as Dorian appears to be unable to get both feet under him properly.

"I apologize!" he sings out. "I am not a golden halla after all, apparently. I think.. I've broken an ankle. At least it hurts about that much."

The Inquisitor climbs up with exaggerated carefulness and finally reaches the level of the other two. There is conversation he can't hear but he's pretty sure he knows what it is. The warrior is running her hands over Dorian's leg and Varric curses under his breath, staring up. So close to the top. He can keep going, crest the ridge and backtrack to the lyrium. Blast it into so much quivering dust and make it stop it crying out to him. Then, then he can sleep for a thousand years before they go after the next one.

He wets his lips, looking back down the slope.

Cassandra is climbing again, methodically grasping and reaching. The Herald and Dorian however are going back down at a snail's pace, the one braced against the other. Varric blinks.

"Keep going," the Seekers calls out as she gets close enough.

His mind dangerously blank, he turns back and keeps climbing.

* * *

Walking along the top of the ridge is much easier going than slogging through the snow at the foot of it and in easy time they have retraced their steps. They stand together for a moment, pretending to catch their breath.

A some point a relatively shallow bowl formed here, perhaps sixty feet across, somewhat less than half of that again deep. Clustered on the other side, the lyrium has shoved itself through the stone and snow. The crystalline spikes thrust outwards in mass confusion like obscenely hard entrails spilling out from a wound and Varric swallows.

The worst thing is it's pulsing in rhythm. It feels like it's driving his blood.

Forcing himself to look away, he starts picking out his footholds, trying to judge when closer will be close enough.

"Can you destroy it from here, Varric?" she asks breathily. Her hand is wrapped around the hilt of the sword, tight enough to be noticeable. He sees it but isn't sure if he should ask if she's starting to hear it too.

He shakes his head once and then again, harder, trying to reform his thoughts into something coherent. He delays by scooping up a small handful of snow to swallow it, trying to taste water for a moment instead of lyrium. "Sorry, Seeker. Bad angle and I'm not risking it. I only have so many bolts on me and this one… well, it's kinda big, isn't it?"

"Only a little big," she says calmly enough.

"Right." He stares down across the depression and disguises a hard shudder with a shrug. "Okay, no time like the present. I'm going to. Going work my way over there." He points down and right to where his target is, a small ledge jutting out where some piece of the stone split to provide a rough shelf. "Should be a better shot from there, can do this properly. You wait here."

"I am not waiting here, dwarf."

"And why the hell not?" he snaps back. "You can't do anything with that sword except crowd my shooting arm."

She shifts on her feet and he hates the closed, tight expression on her face. "I am worried for you," she says unexpectedly. "Do not think I have not noticed what it is happening."

He grunts in surprise. "Doesn't matter," he replies after a moment, fumbling, cursing the noticeable delay between thought and sound. "Just… stay here and I'll take care of it. If you want, you can carry me back out if you need something to do. Maybe there'll be a bear or something."

Her lips tighten but he hopes it's because she's trying not to smile. He moves away and starts to pick his way down.

It's difficult, more than difficult. The slope here is more stable at least than the way up, the stone older and less disturbed but the lyrium wails in previously unknown octaves, distracting. The snow that has drifted into crevices makes things hard to judge, the shifting red light casting wavering shadows that don't help at all. More than once he nearly puts a foot wrong. He starts, stops, starts again.

But he makes it after what seems like a year and forever, bracing himself along the exposed face. Varric hauls in a painful lungful of air, trying to stay centered and focused. As he thought, the angle here is as close to perfect as he's going to get, the twisting spires of lyrium all but reaching out to him. He can see right into the center of the mass and for a second the song aching along his bones makes beautiful, incandescent sense.

Varric shudders and drags his eyes away. He starts to pull Bianca off his shoulder, fumbling awkwardly.

Afterwards he has no idea what he did wrong. Did the ledge collapse, some unseen fault with his weight on it? Did his foot slip with his shattered un-attention? Or did, Maker preserve all fools, did he actually step forward? All of those things, none of those things.

He's somehow on his hands and knees in the snow at the bottom of the basin, spitting shock and blood. He's bitten through his tongue but doesn't have time to care about it. His hands are scraped and bleeding. Those are the only two things he actually feels.

He looks up.

He's fallen nearly on top of it. Twenty feet, maybe less or something more because it's impossible to judge, only that it fills his sight like a horizon. This close he can all but see his reflection in the crystalline planes, see himself endlessly reflected. His heart twists with sudden panicked horror.

Then it's gone. All of it is gone, torn away and lost. The surging thrill under his skin is nothing short of a lover's caress, something he almost has a name for. He staggers to his feet, somewhere dimly amazed that he can.

Somebody is yelling faintly. He shakes his head and that falls away too.

Everywhere he looks is red and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

He takes a step. Then another. His flesh blackens with exultation, heat and promise and the shrieking edge of understanding. Fingers of it thread through his hair, touch his shoulders with power. Red coils wrap tight around his neck until he can barely breathe for how good they feel. A knowing hand snakes down his hip.

He could have it. He could take it. It could be his.

And oh, it wants to be his.

A third step. His bloodied fingers twitch and he reaches.

But a shadow grabs him, hauls him back. He howls, fighting, but the grip is too strong.

It's a woman with dark hair and darker, wilder eyes. She drags him a half dozen steps before he digs in and then there is a tense, straining stalemate. She's got a hold of him by a strap and she yanks again, stronger than she looks with her whipcord length. He loses yet another lurching step. It's his harness, he realizes dimly. She has him by the harness.

He claws at the buckles and the useless weight at his shoulder drops and he sheds both burden and jacket all in a piece like a snake. She reaches for him again.

"Varric. Varric."

There's red dancing in her eyes. The lyrium over his shoulder screams through its reflection and he shudders. He flexes his shoulders in inarticulate want.

She hesitates, scanning his face, her hand hovering between them.

She moves slowly then, enough that it seems a dream or a drug fever until she's before him with one knee in the snow. He can see flakes of white in her dark, tousled hair. Something in her eyes is confusing enough to hold him there.

"Varric. Do you know me?"

He takes a breath. No. Yes. No?

"Varric." Her voice pleads. Her fingertips raise as if to touch his face, brushing instead the hollow of his throat.

He sets his jaw against it. Her cheek is scarred and he finds himself touching it with a finger without intending any such thing, tracing the heavy line. Blood smears like it's reopening.

He's always meant to touch her. He's always wanted to do that. Yes. Run his tongue along her, taste himself on her skin.

"Seeker." That's all he has but it seems to be enough. She smiles, her eyes still frightened. That's it. That's the confusing thing. The Seeker should never be frightened.

Her hand is burning hot as it curls around the chain at his throat.

His thumb brushes over her face again. Taste her, touch her. Have her. His.

"Varric, come away. Come away from it." Her other hand hesitates, then moves to his arm. She tugs once and then again, more strongly.

No. He growls his answer, rocking on his heels, and her other fist flashes out lightning fast. It knots in the cloth at his shoulder. Something rips.

She stands, rising like a furious thundercloud, gaining sudden leverage. She tries again, yanking viciously. "Maker, help me! Varric!"

Suddenly he understands the wrongness. She should never be frightened. Once she hears it properly, she'll never be frightened again. And hewants.

He sinks his fingers into her upper arm, deep as mountains and it takes nothing at all to drag her back down.

She loses her grip on him, collapsing to both knees with a harsh sound. Her free hand starts to fumble with something at her waist.

"Come," he pants. "Come here, Seeker."

"Varric, no!"

A step backwards. He's stronger than she is, he always has been. "Be here with me. Seeker. Seeker. Always."

He pulls again, inexorable and she cries out in sharp pain, starting to struggle. Her free hand drops, scrabbling in the snow.

She tries then, tries to lean back, to pull away and she's strong, he loves that, he's always loved that about her but she is only human and he's not letting go. He tightens his grip into a cage and half turns, dragging her across the ground even as she screams yet again. Back towards the song, back towards the safety of the howling crystals. Red in her eyes, red in her hair, the taste of lyrium in her mouth under his, always, always, always.

"Varric! Varric, please, no! Don't do this, don't do this!"

He's never seen her tears before.

She's crying. Cassandra is crying.

He's hurting Cassandra.

He snatches his hand back as if it's burning.

Maybe he is.

"...Varric?"

He closes his eyes. He inhales, a breath so deep his entire body freezes with the intense, bitter cold. "Yes."

She swallows, a wet sound. "Varric, come away. Come away with me. We have to leave this place. Now."

Lyrium screams again but this time he has something to hang onto.

"Can't. Can't, Seeker. Have to… have to…" He gropes after it. "Have to finish this. Can't come back here again."

"Someone else can do this. Come with me now."

"No." He opens his eyes. The wet smear of her face accuses, his blood on her cheek, but her eyes are dark again, the red only a reflection. "No."

He can't find any more words but he doesn't need to. Varric turns and finds Bianca half buried in the snow. It is the work of moments to free her from the tangle and his fingers leave wet, dark streaks on her blond wood as he loads her.

He walks back and finds the angle again, looks into the tangled mess of lyrium, the beating, pulsing, crying heart of it.

He doesn't remember pulling the trigger, reloading, doing it again and yet again until there's nothing left that sings at all. But he knows he did it because the next thing he remembers, they're stumbling into camp together.


	6. Wherein Cassandra Gets Trapped

If it wasn't for the presence of the fireplace, she would have called the room a prison cell. Well, that and that the door wasn't actually a door at all, or even a set of decent bars. Where a barrier would no doubt have hung at some point is now just an empty gap. A scavenged tapestry has been strung up, allowing her some privacy.

Still, sometimes it doesn't matter what the details are. Prison cell or storage room, it's still much too small.

The room she's been given is barely three paces from wall to wall, deep in the heart of Suledin Keep with no windows, no ornamentation and comprised entirely of pale gray stone without any redeeming features. She knows she is tall but even still it doesn't seem right that her hair nearly brushes the ceiling. It's an uncomfortable feeling and she tells herself over and over again not to hunch. It's not as if she is magically going to grow three more inches and actually bump her head.

But cramped as it is, it does have a small inset alcove that vents to the outside through some miracle of ancient engineering and the fire that has been built there does its work well each night, warming the space to the edge of uncomfortable. The raised stone shelf behind her that runs the length of one wall has no discernable purpose but now at least holds a deeply piled pallet for sleeping. There are no shortage of blankets in the keep at least. If the walls are blank and claustrophobic, well, she has certainly dealt with worse before.

Many times worse, she reminds herself. Still, it does somewhat feel as if she is occupying a mausoleum.

Cassandra is too old to let the comparison bother her, she is long past her girlhood where the Mortalitasi of her youth were frightening figures of power and mystery. And she is pretty sure if she keeps repeating that, eventually she'll come to believe it.

She sighs, sitting on the edge of the makeshift bed. It seems a petty thing to ask for a different room while they are here, recovering from their last… well, adventure is the wrong word, but march isn't correct either, neither are they precisely advancing anywhere. Recovering from their latest trials, perhaps. That is close enough.

Suledin itself is only recently liberated and while the corps of Inquisition workers that have descended upon it have done themselves proud, there is still much of the place that is fit only for birds and weather. And asking for a room that faces outside when yet another blizzard could blow up out of nowhere would be the height of hubris.

No, it's better that she remain where assigned. There is a bed and warmth and truly, she needs no more than that. They will only be here a few more days, she is sure. She can handle too-short ceilings for that long without complaint.

Cassandra leans down and starts to root in her pack for her carefully wrapped book, her singular vice. She will read until she is either too tired to make out the words or the fire dies enough to achieve the same end.

There is a odd sound outside in the passageway. It repeats again after a moment and she realises it is a knock, or a close approximation of one as someone taps something metal on the stonework. She frowns, halting her search.

"Seeker? Can I come in?"

Oh.

Varric. Of course it would be Varric.

Out of nowhere she is pricklingly aware that she is wearing things that she intended to sleep in; her oldest breeches, soft and thin and held to her hips by frayed leather ties. The rough undyed cotton of her shirt falls to her thighs, more than acceptable even if loose laced and wide at her throat. She has worn less in front of company before and thought nothing of it, yet at the mere sound of his voice outside she feels horribly exposed.

She needs a sword and breastplate, neither of which are here. At least her hair is still up and braided. Being caught completely unpinned would have been unconscionable.

"Seeker?"

"Varric," she replies dryly. She casts around desperately but her mind is blank. She stands, not willing to be sitting for some reason and squares her chin. "Come in."

His hand brushes aside the heavy canvas covering the opening and Varric ducks inside.

His face is not a stranger to her and she should not feel this defensive. Yet, she does. Without willing it, her arms cross over her chest. The rough texture of her shirt rubs against her breasts and she regrets having removed her breastband for comfort. Let him think her annoyed, it is better that than anything else.

"What is it, dwarf?"

"What, can't I come visit my favorite Seeker?"

"I am the only Seeker you know, Varric. Why are you here?"

He's been drinking, at least a little. His eyes are just that little bit too bright, his skin just that little bit too flushed. Somewhere along the way she has started to see the small things that belong to him and the things that are imposed from the outside. His voice is deeper than usual and he is already taking up too much room for all that he hasn't taken but a single step inside. Perhaps he too thought her room would be bigger.

She watches the play of muscle move along his jaw as his eyes flicker over the sleeping area. He appears to be finding and discarding things to say and she watches all of them move across his mobile face. Once he would have been unreadable to her and she is uncomfortably aware that somewhere that has changed. Does he see into her better as well? It's a disturbing feeling.

"Do you really have to ask?"

"With you, yes." Training keeps her voice and face impassive. For the first time tonight she is grateful for her height, that she towers over him in her bare feet as he stands before her. It is an illusion and they are both aware of it but still, it helps. The fact that the firelight is doing wonderful things to the color of his hair is not something that is worthy of her attention.

"Alright, we'll just get down to it then. You didn't tell her Inquisitorialness."

"No. I did not."

His broad face tilts and his voice remains mild. "Mind if I ask why?"

Somewhere she knows she had hoped they could simply avoid this conversation. But trust Varric to push when he was least wanted, when she still hasn't figured out what she intends to do. She opts for a blunt truth.

"You are needed here, now more than before. I am sure that you will not… that it will not happen again, now that you are… aware. Of the potential."

He snorts softly.

"So you didn't tell her so she wouldn't send me back."

"Yes."

His eyes narrow and then suddenly Varric leans a shoulder against the wall, crossing his own arms. Instead of looking defensive, he just claims space, lounging easily. She frowns at him but he just smiles broader like he knows something she doesn't. Of all the things he does, she likes that one the least.

"Not good enough, Seeker. I'll buy that at least halfway but that's not the only reason."

She throws up her hands in agitation. "What are you looking for, Varric? Did you want me to tell her?"

"It's not a bad idea. I mean, when your forward scout goes crazy and tries to join the other side of the war, don't you think that's something you maybe ought to mention at some point?"

"You were not…" she protests hotly before she catches the expression in his eyes, at odds with the rest of his face. She puts a hand on the back of her neck and stares at the too-close ceiling for a long count. "You were not yourself," she finishes more calmly.

"That's the definition of crazy, Seeker."

"You were… not yourself. The lyrium…" For a heartbeat she feels again the snow sliding under her knees, everything washed red. Blood on his face, on his hands. The terror as she'd realized she was going to lose. She shoves it down. "You will not make that mistake again."

He's silent for long enough that her eyes come back to him. The corner of his mouth twitches. "Sure about that?"

"Varric?"

"No, Seeker. You're right, I won't make that mistake again. If the red stuff is going to get me, it's going to be because somebody held me down and shoved it down my throat. I'll throw Andraste herself on the pyre again before I let it get to me a second time."

She shifts, suddenly unsure what to make of the tone. "You got too close and you were weakened. I should have protected you better. It is as much my fault as yours."

He laughs at that and shoves himself away from the wall without warning. "Protect me? Excuse me, Seeker, but didn't we already figure out that I'm stronger than you?" He takes an aggressive step forward and she can't help it, can't help it at all, stepping back to keep the distance between them. The back of her knees bump against the bed she'd half forgotten about and she sits abruptly.

She glares at him, flustered. The expression on his face has twisted, something knowing curling the corner of his mouth in a way she cannot stand.

"Do not look like that," she says coldly.

"You're afraid of me now."

"I am not."

"You are. You won't let me anywhere near you."

"I am not afraid of you, Varric. There are many people who are stronger than I am, it is not a contest."

"And how many of those people have nearly broken your arm just by grabbing you?"

He takes another deliberate step forward. The room is much, much too small to have him in it, the bulk of his body half cutting off the light from the fire now. He's outlined in light, bright and gold and red, the color of corrupted lyrium but also his color, always how she thinks of him. Red for passion, red for anger, red for blood, for everything worth having. She would stand again if she could but she can't and maybe it wouldn't help anyways.

But she still puts a hand up to ward him off. She misjudges and her fingertips brush his chest, bump against the gold chain at his throat.

He stops then, still as stone. She watches his throat move and there is no way she can interpret the expression on his face, hooded and dark.

"Okay, so you're not afraid." His voice is rough gravel. "Show me your arm, Seeker."

"What?"

He's patient as if understanding her confusion, his voice gentling. "Show me your arm and I'll get out of your way."

"I don't understand."

"You don't have to, Seeker. Shit, I don't understand myself half the time but I need you... I need you to show me what I did. I have to see."

Is she afraid of him? She doesn't know. Something has changed between them, yes, and it keeps changing and she is no longer sure of what she should do, what she should say. It was not his fault, not truly. And yet, it was.

But this is Varric here, now and if she has no hope of understanding anything else, she understands the pain in his eyes. If she is afraid, she will not let it rule her.

Cassandra watches herself press her palm against his chest with deliberate pressure, the warmth of his skin beating under her fingers. He is wonderful to the touch and she stands, suddenly calm. Varric takes a step back at that and the room expands just a little bit so that it's easier to breathe.

"Very well."

She could just remove her shirt and for a heartbeat, she actually considers it. The possibilities suddenly curling through the air like smoke are confusing and she wonders what he would do if she was so bold. Anything at all? Would he want to put his hand on her too?

She reaches instead for the laces at her throat, widening the gap of the collar. Her night shirt is meant for comfort and it is simple enough slip her shoulder through the newly created space, sliding the loosened material down to her elbow. She pulls her arm free of the sleeve with effort, wincing at the strain on the healing flesh.

"Maker's balls."

Varric has stopped breathing. She doesn't need to look herself to know what he's seeing. The yellow fingers touch as high as her collarbone now, pool in the cup of her shoulder, sweetly outlined in blue as if painstakingly painted. Her bicep is still a weltered glory of darker color where the pressure had been longest and deepest.

The dwarf shifts on his feet, gaze locked in sudden agony. "Shit. I knew... Maker lose me on the Deep Roads. I knew when I saw you struggling with your shield."

"I have had worse in training."

He reaches out with such a blank look on his face that she knows he's barely aware of anything else.

"The hell you have."

His hand wraps slowly around her arm, gentle as anything she has ever felt. She knows he's matching himself precisely, fingertip by fingertip. She can feel it, hot little points of contact.

"Varric."

He won't look at her.

"Varric," she insists. "I have had worse in training. I would not lie."

"Fine, if you say so. But I bet nobody's tried to feed you to red lyrium before while doing it. That was all me."

"Stop wallowing, dwarf." She pitches her voice curt and sharp.

Varric growls at that, curling his lip, and something in it catches the breath in her throat. She makes an involuntary sound and his eyes fly to her face.

"You did that then, too," she babbles. "Growled. It was frightening."

"So you are afraid."

"Yes. I mean, no. Varric, no. I am not afraid of… Maker, this is impossible. You snarled at me, at the last, just like that, when I tried to pull you away. There was nothing in your eyes that I knew anymore and you growled at me and yes, I could not break away and yes, I was frightened. Anyone would have been. But then you just... stopped. And you were you again."

She is sure he won't answer the unspoken question. She can see it closing over his face, the shrug he will give, the words he will say that might, in some manner, even be true but will not be truth. She braces for it.

He hesitates though. Then his hand reaches up and he strokes her damaged arm, shoulder to wrist in a slow, unmistakable caress.

"You were crying."

"I… what?"

"You were crying, Seeker."

"I was crying."

"Real tears, Seeker, honest and truly. And you know what I was thinking? If you can even call it thought?"

She shakes her head. His fingers encircle her wrist in a loose grip, nearly holding her hand. His hand is warm and it spreads through her body.

"That if I could only get you to hear it like I could hear it, you wouldn't be afraid anymore. I didn't want you to be afraid. I just wanted you to be with me. Hear it with me. But you were crying and I just… you were crying because I was hurting you and I just. I just..."

Varric's face spasms and he turns so that all she can see for a moment is his profile. He drops his gaze and she stares blankly at the top of his head. He turns her palm up and she feels his thumb moving slow across the sensitive flesh of her wrist. She has no memory if he's ever touched her like this before, it feels so achingly fragile.

"You were crying, that's all."

She sits down because she really doesn't think she can stand anymore.

He shrugs then and when his face lifts, his expression is mocking as it often is, a smile curling in the corner of his mouth. "I've done a lot of really shitty things in my life, Seeker, but hurting you because I have poor impulse control? Pretty much tops the list."

"You broke out of lyrium thrall because I cried." It seems unbelievable.

"Yeah, well. If you tell the Herald, which you should, let's leave that part out, okay? It can be our little secret." His lips move into a larger smile and she can see the story settling over his face, his body starting to shift away. "Give me a bit and I'll think of something better."

"Varric."

"Yes, Seeker?"

She takes a deep breath. "I did not tell the Inquisitor because she would have sent you back to Skyhold. For your own good."

"You said that."

"She would have sent you away. I didn't… I don't want that. It is selfish, I know, do not think I am not aware of it, but I would worry if you were not… if you were not here. I promise, Varric, I will protect you better, now that I am aware of how strongly it calls to you."

It's nothing more than the truth but for some reason it's impossible to look at him directly. She keeps her gaze on his necklace instead. His fingers are still light on her wrist and she wonders if he even realises he's still holding her there. She doesn't want to point it out in case he stops. She watches him swallow and when he speaks, his voice is slow.

"So. You're saying you want to keep me with you."

She opens her mouth to disagree, it's not like he is implying. It's simply important that she not fail in her duty, not now when she knows of how vulnerable he is. Anything could happen if she can't watch over him. He would spend all his time in the tavern, drinking and blaming himself and that would not be right. It really is as much her fault as anything. She should have known, reacted better and faster.

"Don't, Seeker." He hasn't moved but somehow the space between them has closed, she's not sure how. She is conscious of the breadth of his shoulders, the warmth of his skin radiating so close to hers. His hand moves finally, stroking back up her exposed arm, a tickle of fingertips alone. She shivers and cannot disguise it. "I'll tell you another secret though, just for you and me."

"What?" Even to her own ears, her voice sounds wrong, too thin, too light.

"I didn't want you to be afraid. But mostly? I wanted you with me. I wasn't going anywhere without you. Not even into madness apparently." His hand curls over the top of her shoulder, warm and strong. His fingers slide over bare skin to the back of her neck, tangling in the short curls there and at that she has to look up. His face is so close to hers. "Messed up, I know."

"Varric."

"That's my name."

The smile is deprecating but his eyes are somewhere else and she knows somewhere that once upon a time she would have heard the words and seen nothing else.

"Why do you never call me by mine?"

He shakes his head then. "No. No, that's still my secret." His thumb traces the soft skin under her ear and for one heart stopping moment, she wonders if he's going to kiss her. What she will do about it. If she will do anything at all. Does she want him to? His fingers are paralyzing, that's all she knows.

"That is unfair, dwarf."

"Life's like that." She feels more than sees the deep tremor that runs through his body and then his hand smoothly drops away, breaking contact. She takes a deep breath, then another, unsure of when she'd stopped. "Tell the Inquisitor, Seeker. I want to finish this as much as you do, but sometimes it really doesn't matter what I want."

He's ducked out the not-exactly-a-door before she can think to ask what she's supposed to tell, exactly, and what precisely it is that he wants to finish.


	7. Wherein Cassandra Gives Up On Truth

"Lie to me, Varric."

Her voice is a thread now, barely a scrape of gravel in the darkness.

"I don't know, Seeker. I usually have to have some momentum going for those."

Her laugh is thick, clotted as the finest cream and he'd close his eyes if it would make any difference. "Try."

Varric shifts and tries to think of anything, anything at all but he's long ago run out of stories, real and imagined. "Gimme a hint here. Any particular thing you want me to lie about?"

He's not sure if she's gone out again, the pause is so long. Please Maker, not gone under, she's stronger than that, she's going to out-stubborn the entire world if she has to. Eventually he hears the chain shift and it's the crappiest thing ever to be happy about but he'll take it.

"Halamshiral. Make it beautiful."

"Good one, Seeker." He leans his head back, trying to ease the strain of the collar and stares at the ceiling he can't see. "I was never really fond of that place either."

"Talk."

So he does. And his voice is hoarse with dust and screaming but then he finds it, picks it up and breathes into it. The darkness sprouts flowers and delicate green shoots, the heady scent of the lotus flowers that are both beautiful and deadly so of course they must be everywhere. He winds those into trellises wet with clever water, gives them women who lean over the bruised petals to inhale the dust, sparking the night a little brighter. And what are the women without the men to pursue them, to give them grace and heat and limbs that tremble with both fear and delight? So he describes them too, the gold at shoulder and wrist, the dark eyes and kisses stolen and given in the shadows of cultivated trees.

He starts to lose track. Marble floors veined in clouds and dawn, cool to the touch, slick under soft slippers; jewels worth a queen's ransom spilling artlessly from engraved coffers. He steals one with a flourish and presents it to the one he's chased here, a scullery maid perhaps, lips red as roses and more dangerous than the lotuses. A disguised heiress, hiding herself behind a swan's mask, and he pursues through the Palace unknowingly, following perfume and the sound of laughter he can't shake and he kisses her fingertips behind a door as others search high and low.

They wander together hand in hand; a clockwork bird made of gold that sings on command, a porcelain doll that dances. There is music, high and light and a grand oratory that frames the stars above in crystal and silver. He finds her a fountain of purest white and her dress is damp with spray as he kisses her properly at the last, her hair threaded through his fingers like spun gold.

When exactly he runs out of words, he doesn't know. There's no time here anymore to judge anything. The silence enfolds them, and the green fades and the taste of her mouth slides away and he sighs.

"You lie wonderfully."

He does close his eyes at that. "Always have," he agrees.


	8. Wherein Varric Has An Itch

"Stop scratching."

"I'm trying."

"Try harder. You're just going to make it bleed and that's just going to spread it even farther."

"Can you tell me something I don't know?"

There's a long pause. Across the campfire, Cassandra ducks her head against the pitiful tone of Varric's voice.

"Well, once my father dropped my little brother on his head and he needed four stitches. I was young and thought it was the best thing ever so I asked him to drop me too so I wouldn't be left out."

"That's… yeah, I have no idea what to say to that."

"That's pretty much what my mother thought too."

"Look, getting away from what I'm pretty sure none of us needed to know about how you grew up, how about liberating one of those potions for me before I peel my entire hide off?"

"Sorry, Varric." And the tone really is sorry. The Inquisitor almost claps the dwarf on the shoulder before hastily pulling their hand back. The sour look on Varric's face is priceless. "We only have one left and while I know it probably feels like you're dying, it's just a rash."

"This is not 'just a rash'. This is a personal Blight sent to test me."

"And I know you can triumph. Solas says you'll be fine in a couple of days."

"In a couple of days, there's going to be nothing left of me. Promise me you'll bury me holding Bianca. She's never let me down."

"Stop. Scratching! Do you want me to tie your hands together?"

"Inquisitor, that's the best offer I'm going to get all week but I gotta warn you, any squirming I do on the sheets is gonna be for me, not you."

Cassandra can't help the strangled snort that escapes and Varric jerks his head up to glare at her. Something hooks at the corner of his mouth at whatever her expression is though and the dwarf glances down again, shoulders hunkering. He looks miserable as his hand starts to creep over his shoulder yet again. The Inquisitor slaps it away and he growls at both of them impartially.

"Next time, Seeker, I'm throwing you into the pretty bushes first."

"If you wish, Varric."

"I hate all of you."

"Yes, Varric."


	9. Four Times Cassandra Punched Something

The first time she punches something, she is seven.

It is spring in Nevarra and the new winds are temperate and sweet, curling delicately with fragrance. The distant sparkle of the Minanter carries the first white dots of ships on its broad flanks.

Her face is going to fall off. She sneezes once and then again and salt in the bitter wound, a third time. She is red, irritated, itchy and she glares at the world from swollen eyes.

Her brother who does not suffer, laughs instead. "Punch a tree!" he tells her with amusement. "It'll make you feel better."

She does and she does. She is only seven but there is satisfaction in returning this unwanted pollen favor. The tree did not ask for it but then again, neither did she.

She learns that decisive action against injustice can be taken against nearly anything. She reflects on this later and wonders if her brother's offhand advice does not directly lead to everything else in her life.

* * *

The second time she punches someone, she is eleven.

It is summer in Nevarra and the heat is oppressive, the ever present winds carrying the taste of scoured sand from the faraway Plains, rendering everything gritty and shabby. Marble statues wilt in the shade.

Inside, shielded by cool stone, she is all but crying as the older boys torment her although she is trying not to give them the satisfaction. When did she get so scrawny, they say, lounging in her uncle's library as they wait for her brother to return, talking at once to her and over her. Only a girl, they say, and ugly at that with her scowl and her curls. It is good that she is born to money, they say as well, because she will need it.

She tells them defiantly that she does not need money, she will grow up tall to hunt dragons like her brother. When they laugh she hits the one closest to her, hard enough to bruise because he is softer than a tree. She is only eleven but she knows when something is unfair.

When Anthony dies a year later, she begs to be sent to the Templars. She is given to the Seekers instead.

She remembers the boys sometimes, although the insults have long since faded and frayed into fragments. They were children themselves, she tells herself, as though it is an excuse.

* * *

The third time she punches someone, she is eighteen.

It is autumn in Nevarra and the winds have teeth now, scudding clouds of both air and incense that announce the faster fall of the days. She attends the Festivals of the Dead as she has done for every year but one in her life and her uncle remains as he always has, no younger nor older than she remembers. He seems as ageless as the dead he cares for so much more than her and no more approachable.

She obeys the summons to return from her tasks and training because she is yet dutiful, but she is eighteen now and she thinks, standing in the place that was never her home, that she would like not to return again. She is yet considered marriageable and the number of proposals her uncle entertains on her behalf has become ludicrous. The number of desperate men rises as fortunes fall and each year she is less patient with it. She cannot fight dragons with her brother and neither will she tie herself to anyone simply to mend the breach of her family's shame.

Her curls are gone but not her scowl. She is as tall as she promised, thin and ugly still, but the scars she has she has earned and she will not be laughed at by those that have not done as much. When one particularly ardent suitor attempts to trap her in an alcove to advance his cause farther than his brethren, she manages much better than she did when she was eleven. He staggers and falls down a set of stairs, breaks his arm, and she cannot bring herself to care overmuch.

Somewhere amid the revelry and the honors aimed towards their revered dead, she lights a candle for her brother and tries not to think of his corpse shuffling amid all the others. She holds onto a memory that is already growing old and colorless and tells him that she is doing well for herself, that she is fulfilled.

It is not entirely true but it is close enough that she is sure he would smile. True to her word, she never returns and she never marries.

* * *

The fourth time she punches someone, she is nearly forty and supposedly past such things.

It is winter in Haven and the wind is slicing and cruel in fits and starts, skirling along the ground, picking up speed along the wooden palisade. There was snow before and there will be snow after but now, everybody stomps their feet and tries not to freeze to the ground.

She is sorting the newest recruits, helping a desperate Cullen separate wheat from chaff as quickly as possible. The farmers and the potters and bandits by necessity she will send home, unless they show some hope of skill with a blade. They cannot afford to keep the useless and the task is becoming herculean as their ranks swell daily with both fear and hope.

She overhears a sneering curse and the sound of a man spitting. She looks sharply and sees only Varric walking to the Chantry, his weapon imposing at his shoulder. If he hears the slur, he is not acknowledging it, continuing steadily past her latest group of shuffling misfits.

She does not like the dwarf either but her reasons have nothing to do with his parentage, relying solely on the aggravating man himself. She decides to make an object lesson out of it.

She invites the mud footed offender into the training ring and proceeds to demonstrate how one can take out an opponent without the use of a blade at all. It feels like hitting a tree, all things considered, but she is long used to it and it gives her grim satisfaction that she still remembers how. Her point is not lost on those watching and no one makes that mistake again her hearing.

Varric disappears through the banded oak doors and she never mentions it to him.

* * *

The fifth time she wants to punch someone, Varric beats her to it.

It is spring in Orlais and the wind sags with damp and cold, shivering with rain like a fretful horse. They are ten days out of Val Royeaux and all she wants is a mulled drink, a dry bed and a chance to warm up before they must ride again in the morning. The man that drops himself next to her apparently wishes to invite himself into all of those plans.

She is too tall, too scarred, too ugly, too old for this, but while this one does not want her wealth, she is reminded of that long ago suitor that would not take no for any answer at all. His breath is foul, his whiskers are unkempt and offensive and he keeps pawing at her arm. She regrets that she is not wearing her Seeker emblazoned armor.

She grips a dagger and schools herself to impassivity, returning his crude advances with escalating disinterest. When she fails to respond pleasingly, his curses are not particularly inventive and neither are they quiet. She recites the Chant in her head and tells herself that some boys never grow up to be men and it is not her calling to educate those that fail in the task. She is so distracted with maintaining calm that she does not realize that Varric has returned from the mysterious errand that sent him out alone in the rain until her admirer is yanked away and stretches his dazed length on the floor.

He stays down but his friends do not.

Later, a different inn, a different flavor of mulled wine and she quietly winds a bandage around his split knuckles.

"You did not need to defend me," she says as primly as she can. "I could have done as much myself."

Varric chuckles, warm as he always is, both of them watching her fingers tend the hurt with care and attention. "Sure, but where's the fun in that, Seeker? It was absolutely my pleasure to do it for you."

She doesn't approve and she lets him know and they quarrel amicably. She keeps it to herself that, with him, she is never too much of anything at all except, perhaps, happy.

* * *

-coda-

 _the fragment of writing that turned into the fic above_

(

When somebody gets the bright idea to break a chair over his back, he's pretty sure it's completely uncalled for. He hasn't smashed any furniture yet. He's been resisting smashing the furniture, in fact. The escalation pisses him off. He's _trying_ to be nice about this and besides, they started it.

Across the tavern, he catches a glimpse of Cassandra decking one of hers to the ground, putting her entire shoulder into it. The guy collapses like he's just had a visitation from the Maker Himself, tangling with a flipped table. It's poignant, really.

He squints. Didn't he see that head of hair at the start of the fight? Obviously the Right Hand of the Divine hadn't taken this brawl particularly seriously at the start either if she hadn't put that one down properly the first time.

"This is why we can't have nice things, Seeker!" Varric yells. Escalation? He can do escalation. He grabs the remnants of the chair and turns. His attacker backs off with his hands up defensively. Young, male, stupidly human. Varric bares his teeth in a nice smile.

It's times like this that he really appreciates how his face is put together. The long-broken nose, the strong jawline, the bloodshot eyes. It all adds up to quality intimidation and he doesn't have to do anything to achieve it except narrow his eyes.

"You picked the wrong dwarf," he advises calmly. Mostly calmly. That last one had _hurt. "_ C'mere, kid."

He probably shouldn't be enjoying it this much but hell if he isn't. He wades after his target, Cassandra's battle cry ringing in his ears.

)


	10. Cassandra Overhears What She Should Not

It is her accursed bad luck that she is passing through the Great Hall on her way to speak to Leliana when she overhears what she wishes immediately she had not. An unfortunate trick of the stone, a small lull in the conversations that swirl in this place constantly like leaves. She walks into it as she might an unseen spiderweb. It's just as heartstopping.

Bianca Davri introduces herself.

She would not be human if she didn't look. The Inquisitor and Varric stand at the larger of the fireplaces, obviously in quiet conversation with a hooded figure who is certainly dwarven by stature alone. If not for that one overheard name, she would have thought nothing of it. There are many people that come and go through Skyhold and it is not as if she makes a point of knowing who they all are. She is, after all, the Right Hand, not the Left.

Her long stride hitches but none of them look at her, none of them seem to be aware of anything except whatever they are talking about. In the instant before she can tear her eyes away, it brands itself on her mind. How closely Varric stands. That his face, always alive, is near expressionless. His arms cross and then uncross as if unsure of themselves.

And that while the Inquisitor is the one talking, the figure… no, Bianca turns only to Varric.

Cassandra keeps walking even as unexpectedly sharp claws dig themselves into her chest. She does not hurry; she greets Solas as they pass, she checks in with Helisma on the second floor. She confers with Leliana quietly in the rookery and at the end of it, a pair of crows are dispatched, one to Lothering and the other to Redcliffe. She can do no more at the moment.

When she returns through the Hall with measured, ringing stride, the fireplace is abandoned.

* * *

All afternoon and into the evening, it plagues her. She cannot seem to stop herself no matter how she tries, even as she speaks to herself sternly, again and again. It is truly none of her business. Varric has many friends, many of them might be named Bianca.

She hates it when she lies to herself, particularly when she is so bad at it.

She tries reading in her room and it is a laughable failure. Her weapons are fine and while she takes the time to arrange them all precisely, including the dagger she uses to slice open letter seals, it is not a lengthy chore. Should any correspondence arrive however, she is well prepared. She straightens everything restlessly; her armor is in good repair, she has no pressing matters of any sort to attend to and she cannot think of any that she could manufacture that would be even thinly plausible. She makes tea to give her hands something else to do.

She tells herself over and over again that she cannot go out to the training yard to work off this agitation. It would too obvious that she is agitated and she is tired of being that transparent. Someone would, no doubt, pry. She would yell because she is unsettled, she knows she is unsettled and then what would happen? Everyone would then be aware that Cassandra is upset within the candlemark because Skyhold runs on orders, ale and the everpresent gossip. She will then need to spend the next three days stonewalling questions about it.

She even considers going to the tavern, if only that there will be noise and distraction even if she is not sure that she cares for either at the moment. She could visit Josephine or Cullen but then she thinks on what small talk she could possibly make and the words dry up in her throat.

The mug that she cups in her hands is long cold. She continues to spin the rough pottery in her hands, her fingertips tracing the familiar bumps and divots as if she can read the secret writing.

Cassandra stares helplessly at Varric's face. Had he been surprised? Had he expected her? Invited her perhaps? His face had been as closed as she'd ever seen, Varric who talked constantly with words and hands and body. What did that mean? Everything? Nothing?

She puts the tea down carefully before she throws it. She tells herself that she had only a glimpse, that she is inferring too much into it. He had been calm, as had the Inquisitor. She really cannot say more than that.

Cassandra crosses her arms and scowls at the oblivious wall of her quarters. Truly, why does she care? Certainly curiosity is to be expected, this mysterious Bianca not made of wood and gears. Not the weapon at all but the woman who built it, the promise he'd mentioned once and never again. Of course anyone would be intrigued. It is after all the one story that Varric doesn't tell, the one that is becoming painfully obvious that she had not actually believed was _real_. Is that why she cannot stop worrying at it?

Her wall declines to answer.

It pains her somewhere to know now, without doubt, that Bianca is perfectly sized to Varric. Shorter. Slimmer. No doubt beautiful by dwarven standards although that is complete conjecture. All she had seen was the back of a hood and expressive hands moving.

Hands that could easily loop around Varric's neck without strain. A face he would not have to stand on a footstool to reach.

And that is too much for Cassandra. She stands, snapping her body to its full height. She reaches for her gloves, starts to pull them on with short, sharp jerks as she strides for the door. She does not in the least want to be thinking about this, nor is she interested as to why her mind will not let it go. She has wasted nearly this entire day fretting on a question she cannot even frame, let alone answer. If Bianca Davri's visit is Inquisition business, she will hear about it soon enough. If it is Varric's business alone, well then it is his and most certainly and absolutely not hers.

She will go ask Master Dennett for the loan of one of the more spirited mounts and ride outside the walls for awhile. She hates horses and they hate her but it will give her something to focus on, something to control. There is enough light still to work off the edge of this... this whatever it is.

* * *

It helps. Dung monsters with hooves and tails and the one she had been given had proven true to the breed. A most tiring ride on both sides and the horse had been just as pleased to be rid of her as she of it. But it had taken all of her concentration and she had thought of little else for the last few hours.

She is grateful for that, and grateful also that Skyhold is large enough now that when she rides up through the stableyard, a young elvhen hand meets her and silently leads her mount away. No doubt to console it with bran and mash and a rub down and likely whispered words about being a good girl for coming back with her rider.

The image in her head makes her smile and her step lightens a little. Cassandra takes off her gloves to tuck them into her belt, flexing her creaky fingers. It is getting late but a bath might be achievable still. She slides through one of the lesser used side doors, thinking to wind her way through the side passages that will lead by connecting cross paths to the rotunda and thence the Great Hall and further yet, the kitchens. A little food to take with her is certainly in order.

She hears the voices before she truly registers them but it is only when she identifies Varric that she stops, for no reason that she can justify afterwards. Her head turns as she hesitates. She is near the library, it seems, the conversation muffled so that she has to strain to make out the odd word as it filters down a small stairway.

Without thinking of it, she turns quietly to ascend. The stone steps are worn in the center from long centuries of use; they must lead to one of the far corners of the next floor. The voices clarify suddenly and she freezes, one foot upon the next step. She must be standing just below them. The conversation rolls over the half wall above her head and the words spill down.

"I know I'm not exactly the one that should be dispensing this kind of wisdom since I so seldom take it, but drinking isn't going to help. Go to bed, Varric. " Dorian's voice holds no disapproval, his Tevinter accent soft.

"I can't. It still smells like her."

"Oh, my friend."

She hears the sound of glass on wood. A chair creaks.

"Yeah."

It's rare for Dorian to hesitate but the silence drags on too long.

"Look, I don't tell this story for a reason, Sparkler, and I'm not about to do it now. But between you, me and this fine sipping whatever the hell this is, love breaks way more than it fixes."

"Do you really believe that?"

Varric snorts. "You telling me you don't?"

She should leave. She should turn around and leave before she overhears any more things that will haunt her for no good reason. But she doesn't; can't, really, even with guilty breath caught in her throat. The chance to hear Varric talk freely? And of love? Cassandra presses her back to the dusty wall and tilts her head against it.

There is a creak of leather and a shuffle of something silk. "My experiences with love have been, shall we say, from a distance. A blessedly far distance, I might add. The few I suspected of it kept it very much to themselves. A real emotion of actual depth towards another person not involving attempted poisonings and slanderous rumor? How gauche." She can almost picture Dorian's hand waving in the air, a casual dismissal. "But my dear dwarf, that is me, not you. You write romance novels! Surely you believe in the fairest of virtues."

"One romance novel and everybody holds it over my head for some reason. And it didn't sell." She cannot tell if he is amused or annoyed. "I'm much better at tragedies. Lots of experience with those."

"One, then." Dorian's voice turns sly. "With, I understand, another chapter for our ever so stoic Seeker?"

"The Inquisitor talked me into that one." The worst of it is that she cannot tell anything from his voice, flat and uninterested. "And come on, I couldn't resist. The Seeker? Reading _my_ trashy fiction? Couldn't let that go by, I'd never have forgiven myself."

She would give anything to be able to see his face. Is that truly how he feels? Uninspired and… and put upon? Her hand clenches, flexing against her stomach.

"I decline to believe you, Varric. But be that as it may, we both know that Cassandra would welcome another and whatever _fictions_ you two tell to each other, I suppose it's none of my business." The drawling emphasis is unmistakeable but Cassandra is not sure what to make of it. She licks her lips, brows drawing together. "But I do suggest that if you're entertaining one unsuitable woman in your quarters, you air it out before entertaining the next."

Varric growls, that is the only way to put it. The rumbling sound shivers in the air. "Now you're being an asshole, Dorian."

"Of course. Along with everything else I'm good at, I have an excellent one of those to match. Really, it's a point of pride. I'll have you know that in some circles, the poetry abounds about its excellence. So round. So firm. So fully... packed."

The dwarfs snorts. "That's the worst joke ever."

"Made you smile though, didn't it?"

A chair creaks again. The longer she stands here, the worse she feels for listening in to what is obviously an intensely private conversation. Cassandra straightens, thinking to retreat, take the longer way around or even just to return louder so they will hear her and she can pretend she heard nothing of this.

"I believe in love," Varric says abruptly. "I hate it, I don't want it, I want absolutely nothing to do with it but yeah, I believe in it."

Cassandra stills, her body half turned to leave. Varric's voice had been low but raw. It nails her back in place somehow, a complicit shadow.

"There you go. That hardly hurt at all, did it?"

"Yeah. Nothing a few potions can't cure." She hears him pick up the bottle again and she imagines that he probably waves it to make his point. "I'm still right though. Love breaks things, Sparkler. You don't see it coming, hits you in your blind spot. Best part? You don't even care. The Maker Himself couldn't get you to care. And there you are, fifteen shitty years later, dead center of the wreckage and wondering what the hell you _ever_ did to deserve being cursed with it."

The room is quiet for a long moment. Cassandra puts a hand to her breastbone and kneads with the palm of her hand to relieve the hurt that's lodged there. "She must be remarkable." Dorian voice is quiet enough to be sympathetic.

"Yeah, she is. You have no idea how brilliant she is." Varric laughs, a short, sharp sound. "In every single way. You know, I've got a standing contract with some people that nobody decent should even know how to reach that when I go to the Maker's side, they come find my crossbow? Because _she_ made it. Because I can't risk it falling into anybody's hands, even a friend's. It needs to be destroyed if I can't do it myself. You don't want to know what else she's come up with. I don't even want to know what she _could_ come up with."

"Surely you exaggerate."

"Wish I was, Sparkler. She'd be Paragon a dozen times over if Orzammar could get its collective snobby head out of its parochial ass. Statues of honor and crap."

"So. She's the Maker's gift to dwarven kind, you love her, she loves you, you take her to bed and voila, wine and roses for everyone. Except that doesn't look much like wine and I don't think roses are going to go with your complexion in the morning."

"It wasn't my idea. That's the other best thing about her. It's never my idea or on my schedule or any other damn thing. She shows up out of nowhere, drops a problem in my lap, I start looking over my shoulder for the assassins she could care less about because she's not the one that has to dodge 'em and I fix things like I always do. As a reward she turns up in my rooms afterwards. I hate that she picks locks better than I can."

"Assassins? That's kinky, Varric, even as foreplay."

"Yeah, well. Her family doesn't like me much."

"How very civilized, and us in the middle of backwater Ferelden. See, that's how you're supposed to deal with things. At a nice safe distance, preferably with the blade untraceably wielded by somebody hired through at least three intermediaries."

"That how _you_ deal with things, O Great And Mighty Not Exactly A Magister. I prefer _my_ answer to this problem, which is a little more sharp and immediate. I've had a drink with a couple, sent 'em back home to return the money with apologies. Others, well." She can almost picture the shrug. "I'm still here and have no intention of that changing anytime soon."

"And your Bianca does… what about this?"

"Fuck you, Dorian, not my Bianca." The air sizzles from the fire behind the words. "Fuck this whole conversation while I'm at it. She can't do anything without admitting what she can't admit. Not that I'd ever ask her to."

"Seems a little one sided."

"You only just figuring that out?"

"Now, now. Just making conversation."

"No, you're not. _I'm_ not. I'm drinking _and_ talking because a woman I have wanted all my life turns up in my bed thinking she doesn't need an invitation, because she doesn't. And she's there before I've fixed anything which worries the fuck out of me because that's not how this goes, that's not how this goes at all. But I'm too Maker blasted... fuck, I don't know. Weak. Stupid. Desperate, take your pick. Every time I get some piece of my life together, she shows up to blow it apart. Every. Single. Time."

"Well, far be it from me to state the obvious. Again. Since you're not listening. Are you listening, Varric?"

"Best part? Absolutely the best part of this is that I can't let go, I know I can't let go and while that makes me an ass, it's nothing new. But I opened my door and there was a woman in my bed and for a second, Sparkler? For a heartbeat it was someone else. Doesn't that just take the cake? I've loved Bianca all my life it seems like and she's not the one I was hoping to see."

"And now my whole damn room smells like sex and her perfume and I can't stand it." She hears the bottle hit the table again and something scrapes along the floor. "I hate you, I hate me and I'm going for a walk. See if I can't trip off a battlement by mistake. Tonight could not get any worse."

She has no time to move. She barely has time to take a single, startled breath before Varric appears at the top of the stairs.

He stares down even as she looks up. She has no idea what's on her face but his whirls through a hundred emotions. Horror, hurt, fury. It settles on pain. Varric barks out a short, strangled laugh.

"I take it back, Sparkler," he calls over his shoulder. "The Maker is _definitely_ fucking with me in particular. Hello, Seeker. Shouldn't you be in your little Seeker bed, dreaming little Seeker dreams?"

"Cassandra?" Dorian's voice is astonished, pitching upwards. She can hear the mage scrambling out of his chair.

"Varric, I…"

The dwarf holds up his hand, already continuing down the stairs. "Save it, Seeker. Just.. save it. When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it, remember?" He brushes past where she's pressed herself against the wall. The curling fingers of a strong spirit reach out to caress her face and then he's gone. She takes a deep, unsteady breath.

Dorian's face appears over the half wall above and Cassandra stares up miserably. She has transgressed. She has transgressed badly and she knows it. She should not have stayed past the first moment she recognized his voice, not once she'd realized what they were talking about. The mortification feels like it stains her very bones.

"My dear Seeker. You have the most remarkable timing."

She shoves herself off the wall. She'd braced herself but against what, she's not sure. Varric had not offered violence. Past the first moment, he hadn't even looked at her.

"And how is that, Dorian?" she asks flatly.

"You _just_ missed Varric. How you two manage to never connect with each other fuels an entire betting pool, you know. Do come up and tell me your secret."

She laughs because she can do nothing else.


	11. Wherein The Winter Palace Gets Smelly

"I am only going to say this once. I don't give a shit what you think about me, I really don't. I don't even care what you say about me because that will take care of itself eventually, one way or the other. You're not the first one to try to play the Game with me and you are not going to be the last." The knife between his legs pokes again and he tries for another sliver of height, balancing on his tiptoes. "But you say anything like that about the Lady Pentaghast again, you look at her, you even breathe at her the wrong way and I am going to stop playing so fast your head will spin. I will filet you from stem to stern as a friend of mine would say and I'll do it slowly, with my worst knife. Do we understand each other?"

"Varric."

The blade pokes again and he can't help the whimper.

" _Varric_." The tone is impatient.

"Yes?"

"You are frightening him."

"I know. I can smell it."

That's when he realizes he's soiled himself.

"This is beneath you."

"Nothing is beneath me, Seeker, I thought we covered this. And the sooner I drive that point home with… you know, I don't even know which asshole this is. What do I even call him?"

The answer comes back with a measure of amusement. "I believe popinjay is in vogue at the moment."

"Right. As soon as our boot licking favor currying doesn't know when to shut up _popinjay_ nods his head that we understand each other, the faster I can get back to real business."

He can see her now out of the corner of his eye, a vague shadow against the wall, dark against the gold frescoes.

"And we do we understand each other, don't we?"

The knife moves again and he yelps. A warm trickle to match the cold starts to move down his leg and he closes his eyes.

"Yes. Yes, I understand, I understand completely, my apologies Lady Cassandra, I don't, I don't know what came over me…."

"Lady _Pentaghast_. You don't get to say her name."

"Lady Pentaghast! Lady Pentaghast! Apologies, a thousand apologies, no disrespect, I was trained by baboons, filthy baboons it's my first time in the City, I'll tell you who hired me, just please don't, please don't, my mother will kill me, I'm to be married in a month…"

The snort behind him is expressive but it's only when his head is shoved forward and he stumbles that he realizes the knife is gone. In relief deep enough to shipwreck, he drops to his knees and wraps his arms around himself.

"Lady Pentaghast. If you would do me the honor of allowing me to escort you away from this den of thieves and iniquity back to the other den of thieves and criminals..." He doesn't look, he doesn't want to look, looking might draw attention so he keeps his head down and shakes. He hears the shiver of silk, booted footsteps, the dull clink of metal on metal.

"I suppose, Viscount Tethras. You do realize that losing one's temper in Orlais is just not done, yes?"

"You've been listening to the Iron Lady again, haven't you? I recognize that phrase."

"Only when she makes sense. Which is depressingly often. Come, before you are missed. I will forgive you your transgressions, as always."

"I love that 'always' part. Makes me feel all sorts of reckless."

He stays there long after they've left. It is only when he judges enough time has passed that he uncurls, standing slowly, easily. He tilts his head to listen, scanning the room but they do really seem to have left. While he would not put it past the erstwhile rogue to double back, the Chantry bitch should hold his attention awhile longer. It wouldn't do to linger though.

With distaste he brushes at the front of his trews, leaning down to inspect the damage. The things he does to achieve his goals might be admirable in concept but the reality leaves much to be desired.

It's only a single small nick high on his inner thigh however, barely more a scratch. It had felt much worse at the time but it's still good to know that Tethras is professional, a detail he tucks away for later.

He makes a moue of distaste. It is unfortunate this took longer to set up than he'd budgeted for and the length of the encounter a little longer than he'd expected. He'd assumed he would be dealing directly with the Nevarran harpy who all reports indicated would be more hands on than had turned out. The anger of the casteless dwarf and his inclusion in the planned festivities had been a wild card.

So he'd misjudged but not severely and certainly very lucratively. Now he was in the unique possession of something previously unknown; Kirkwall was obviously balls deep in the ice princess or wanted to be and that, that would loosen a lot of purse strings.

He touches his pants one more time though and sighs before he starts the long walk to the other side of the Palace, remapping his route in his head to account for the hour.


	12. Wherein Varric Lives Vicariously

He writes the kiss he will never have.

He imagines it; rolls it around his mind like a candy that refuses to melt. The surprise in her eyes, the hitch of breath that will tell him everything he has ever hoped for in that space before their lips touch. It won't be perfect but he doesn't need it to be. Her lips will be cool and chapped and dry, small under his but they will be fierce and free. And best of all, they will surrender in the heartbeat before she remembers fights back.

The sensation of tides and the shifting of the world. He holds it in his mind for as long as he dares, staring down at the half filled page. Then he bends to the work and the quill in his hand is steady as he carefully gives it away in ink and the sound of scratching. It will never be real but at least one of them can have the shadow of it.


	13. Wherein Varric Has A Revelation

"How many women _have_ you had, Varric?"

It's out of her mouth before she can even think to stop it.

"More than I can count," he replies without hesitation. He scratches his shoulder thoughtfully. "And before you ask, yes, I know how to count."

She takes a moment to process it. "But how many is that?"

His head lolls to look at her. Across the hay bale separating them, his face is relaxed, amused. The lantern they carefully propped up nearby casts a golden glow on his features, picking out the rough stubble on his chin in flecks of brightness. After a moment he puts down the long pipe to hold up his hands, wiggling his fingers at her.

"More than this."

"That doesn't seem like much."

"What, is this a contest? I didn't know I was supposed to go for a kill count, here."

"No, no. I mean, that doesn't… I would have thought… Varric."

"Seeker."

She pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to get her unruly thoughts together. The alcohol is not in the least helping, turning everything hazy beyond the reach of the light and muddling her tongue.

"I will try again."

"Sure thing. Don't let me stop you." He folds his hands across his belly, obviously willing to wait. His feet are stretched out on the bale they are sharing and he lounges on his straw throne, wedged into the pale corner he created when they first retreated here, away from the others, away from the noise.

She still not sure why she agreed but it must have been a good idea at the time. With his hair askew and his eyes blown wide from the drug, he is likely the most disreputable thing around for miles but for some reason, she feels safe enough. Relaxed enough. Curious enough.

"I would have thought there'd be more. Than that." She looks at her own hands. She closes them into fists and then opens them again. "Only this many?"

He laughs. "Oh, at least that many, Seeker. One thing or another…shit. If I'd known I was gonna be asked this question by you, I really would have kept count."

"Oh." She takes a swallow from her liberated bottle, giving up on counting and jamming her foot into the straw. She starts digging her boot heel into the loose weave while she thinks about it. "I'm not sure if I believe you."

"Why's that? Were you expecting some outrageous thing, like I'd fucked my way across the Free Marches and back again? That's Isabela, not me."

"Varric!"

"What? You _asked_."

"Do not be crude."

"Seeker, I have no idea how you can ask me how many women I've slept with and then berate me in the next sentence about being crude."

She looks down her nose at him but he just laughs again. Disgusted, she growls.

"I understood you dwarves were supposed to have everything that crosses your path, just in case of children."

Varric's mouth twitches and something crosses his face in spasm. Then he shrugs and she wonders if she just imagined it, so fast is the switch of expression.

"I got standards, Seeker. Low, but I got 'em. Somewhat more than five, less than a ship's crew, how's that?"

"I suppose."

"Shit, Seeker. You still sound disappointed."

"I am not disappointed! I am just… confused, that is all."

"Well, fuck me for not trying harder to get my cock wet."

"Do not be crude!"

"Seeker, you have got to stop being all holier than thou with this. I've heard you, you can really get going when something's pissing you off."

"That is then," she says primly, "and this is now. Try and be less colorful."

"Shit, I hate it when you do that. Fine. I'd throw you a salute but you know I don't do chain of command without being tied up first."

She blinks at that and for a hot moment her brain drags up five different memories at once, jamming them all into her forebrain at the same time. Varric tied and angry, the stone unyielding at his back. The manacles she'd put him in on their way to the ship, unsure if he'd run. Hadn't she held a dagger to this throat once? She shakes her head and then again, trying to clear it. He doesn't seem to notice, continuing.

"But if that's how you want it, I'll stop saying fuck so often if you take another hard hit on that bottle because if we're going to talk about this, you need to be less in control."

That doesn't make a lot of sense because she can't remember the last time she was less in control. Between the drinking in the tavern and the drinking here in the empty stable stall and the unwise hit she'd taken off his pipe at the start, she's pretty sure she's unravelling slowly along every seam she has.

"Bottoms up, Seeker." Varric makes a motion with his fingers, his eyes glittering and out of spite more than anything else, she takes another deep swallow.

"There. Does that please you?" she launches back at him as she lowers it.

"You have no idea." Varric picks up his pipe again and the sweet smoke wreathes his head for a moment as he inhales. He holds it for a long moment before blowing it back out again in rings. The scent of clove and cinnamon intensifies and she watches with bemusement.

"I wish I could do that," she comments.

"I could teach you sometime, you know."

She shakes her head but not without regret. "I do not care for the way it makes me feel. I would rather just watch you."

The grin that travels across his face is as bright as his hair. "Not a problem."

She carefully puts the bottle down on the floor before she drops it, tells herself to remember where it is so she doesn't kick it over later. She stretches out on the hay bale, extending her legs and her calf companionably bumps his.

"Dwarves," he says grandly, waving one hand in the air as if painting a picture, "do not, as a rule, do everything with a hole and a heartbeat they run across. See, Seeker? No crude words. If somebody told you that, they were yanking your utterly long leg."

She opens her mouth and then closes it again. She really is curious and it's not worth starting an argument over. Although him calling her legs long is only stating the truth. It was just the way he said it she takes offense to. Is there something wrong with long legs?

"Now, it _is_ true that dwarves can be kind of… accommodating when it comes to who's doing the mothering and the fathering." He rubs the back of his neck, staring at the far away rafters for a moment. "As in, it doesn't matter that much in the grand scheme of things, as long as there's the right sorts of kids out of it. So there's always that."

"Explain." She turns her head to the side to stare at his profile, resting her cheek on the straw.

"Ever heard of noble hunters, Seeker?"

She thinks, then shakes her head.

"Well, it's just like it sounds. Women go hunting nobles. Sometimes en masse it feels like. Dwarven women, I mean, although it's not like what's happening in Orlais is any different. They just dress it up a bit more and it's a little less desperate."

"Hunt nobles?"

This time she sees the grimace, there's no mistaking it. "Yeah. See, here's the thing with how this works. Whatever kid happens, they take on the caste of the matching parent. Noble man fathers a boy, the boy is noble, doesn't matter who the mother was. But a noble fathers a girl on a woman of no caste? The resulting kid is no caste. Get it?"

She thinks about it, trying to get the sense of it. "That doesn't sound very nice, Varric."

"It's not. But I didn't make these particular rules, I just ignore them when I can. So yeah, some of that whole dwarves-are-promiscuous thing comes from that. Dwarven women near throw themselves at higher caste males, hoping to bear them boy children. That way they've got a nice cushy spot in the household, mother of an heir even the man in question is married to somebody else. Sometimes even especially if the guy is married since if he's taking hunters into his house, he's likely given up on the wife having kids at all. But if they have a girl child, it's back on the streets for both of them."

"That is not right, Varric."

"I just said that."

"Really not right."

"Not arguing, Seeker."

"Did?" She hesitates, licking the inside of mouth. "Did they throw themselves at you, then?" The image is uncomfortable.

"Who, me? Seeker, I'm no caste at all. There isn't a dwarven woman out there who'll touch me except if they like my charm and good looks. Which, c'mon, I got in spades."

"Your house was noble. And you are rich."

"Was. Heavy on the was, Seeker. That's the thing about treason - it stains blood into black poison and nobody wants that dripping into their family tree if they can help it."

She sets her jaw in a heavy line. "This is true."

It takes him a heartbeat and then he swears. "Andraste's flaming ass, sorry Seeker. I didn't mean it that way."

She shrugs. "No, you forgot just as I forgot. I had not thought of it before now but I suppose we have that in common. As they say, sins of the fathers."

"Yeah, well. If there's going to be sinning going on, I'm more than comfortable with committing my own." He leers at her from across the space, wiggling his eyebrows.

And that makes her laugh unexpectedly. Trust Varric to know the right thing to say. "So more than five, less than a ship's crew?"

"S'what I said. Only paid for a couple of 'em, at that." The tone is lazy, complacent and she suspects that somewhere her leg is indeed being pulled but she can't piece it together fast enough to do anything with the suspicion.

She folds her slim fingers behind her head and listens to the whirl in her head. There is straw poking somewhere into her side but she's too relaxed to worry about it. "But I still do not understand. What if you had a child with… I mean, what if you had a child. With someone. Someone higher caste. What would happen then?" She carefully doesn't look over.

The silence is longer than she would like but the reply when it comes is calm. Maybe too calm but who is she to judge? "Depends, I guess. Any sons I had would be no caste like me, normally. Any girls would take on the caste of their mother, assuming she never named me the father to mess up the inheritance works."

"Normally?"

She doesn't even know why she keeps pressing this but she does. Something inside her needs to know and there's no rhyme or reason for it.

"Yeah." She can hear Varric exhale, a short push of air. "If the mother was Paragon, all her kids would be elevated no matter what. Father's caste doesn't matter at all. Nobody fucks with a living Ancestor."

This time, this one grateful time, she manages to keep her question behind her teeth where it belongs.

"Language, Varric."

"Shit, Seeker, you're taking all the fun out of this."

"This is fun?" The surprise is honest enough, bubbling up out of nowhere. She tilts her head again to look at him, perhaps unwisely fast.

"Don't know about you but I'm mostly enjoying myself. I don't think about half this stuff usually, and the other half I really don't think about. What about you then?"

"What about me what?"

"Tit for tat, Seeker. How many men? Or women, whatever your flavor."

It's on her tongue to lie. But he's looking at her, his broad face open in the light, his dark eyes unfocused but trained on her and she hesitates. He had, after all, answered her questions and had even foregone getting mad about it. Once that would not have been true at all. Once she never would come here, looking for his company.

"Men. And one."

She waits for the cutting remark, the laugh. It does seem a laughable thing and she waits for it. But he doesn't, his thick brows pulling together slowly.

"One."

"I said so, Varric."

"That doesn't seem right, Seeker."

"And why do you say that? Should I have had a ship's crew, as you put it?" It comes out harder than she meant it.

"Only if you wanted to." He shakes his head and then apparently thinks better of what he was going to say. "Just surprised me, is all. Figured you for a string of hearts a mile long, all of them fluttering. Maybe some of them stomped into the ground, but still."

She growls at that, half amused, half annoyed. "I am not anyone's sweetheart, Varric. There was a once and that is all. If hearts flutter, it is because I am angry and they are rightfully afraid."

The bark of laughter that elicits makes her smile as well, unaccountably pleased that she managed the words right enough to startle him into it.

"You're smirking, Seeker."

"I am not."

"You are."

"Admit it. You like the idea of hearts fluttering behind you."

"Only if it's the right one."

It takes her a few moments to think perhaps she should have phrased that differently but then no. No, it is right. It is indeed what she feels. The right heart is the only one worth having.

It takes her a little longer to realize that Varric has gone oddly quiet and she looks over.

The look on his face is arrested, caught in the middle of a thought, a crease between his eyebrows. Slowly his eyes focus on again her and they sharpen with some unknown question in them. Confused, she stares back.

"Seeker?"

"Yes, Varric?"

"You still got that bottle?"

She fishes for it, half sprawling out of her seat. Her fingers eventually catch on the neck and she pulls it off the floor before she bumps it over. He leans over and takes it out of her hand and she watches in bemusement as he puts it to his lips. She watches the apple of his throat bob once, twice. He shudders as he puts it back down again.

"Varric, you do not drink." And he doesn't. Other things yes, but never drink. One day she thinks she might ask him about it.

"No. But I figured I'd better get the taste in my mouth first."

She blinks. "Why?"

"Because I just figured something out."

"And what is th..."

His mouth on hers cuts off the rest. Warm, deep, moving slowly. She is startled enough that for a long heartbeat she does nothing. Then his tongue licks at the corner of her mouth even as his hand moves to the back of her neck and with a shudder she opens.

When he finally breaks the kiss, she can only stare at him. Her hands are in his shirt, resting on his chest. She doesn't remember moving them. She doesn't remember anything, really. She finds that she's just staring at his lips and still neither of them have said anything.

She tilts her head and pulls slowly. They meet in the middle and he tastes of smoke, sweetness, heat, the bite of alcohol that is so foreign to him. His tongue curls around hers and the sound he makes trembles through both of them. This time when he pulls back, his eyes are startled and wide.

"Varric?"

His thumb brushes her cheek. "Yeah."

"Why did you do that?" It seems a perfectly reasonable question to her.

"Why did you?"

She opens her mouth and then closes it again.

"Yeah. Me too."

"Oh."


	14. Wherein Nothing Happens

The only good thing about the desert, Varric decides, is the color it turns Cassandra's skin.

He shakes out his other boot and watches yet another scorpion scuttle away. After the weeks of travel through the sand and heat, he's no longer worried about being stung. He's not even sure he'd noticed amid all the other discomforts. Each morning he suffers Trevelyan to slather him with the noxious blend of elf and numbroots that keeps most of his skin intact; each evening he tries unsuccessfully to get the grit out of his hair, his pants, his tonsils. He's burning, peeling, itching.

But Cassandra seems impervious.

He shakes the boot again but nothing else falls out so he decides to risk it, jamming it onto his foot and wiggling his toes. So far, so good. Standing, he stretches, rolls his shoulders as if working out the kinks. Ties his hair back, slow fingers digging through the rough strands. Drags out the moment as long as he can.

She's breaking camp easily, methodically. She already has her gear packed on her dracolisk, tent half rolled, poles laid out in neat precision waiting for the others to finish or start. She works without haste, moving, bending, sorting. In the mornings, her sleeves are rolled unevenly past her elbows, her shirt gapes at the throat and he loves both details equally because while the Seeker is always in control, he has discovered that Cassandra is not.

In the mornings she is slim and sleepy, burned bronze and black and silent as she moves through the rising world, intent only on the things she must do.

In the mornings, Varric watches for as long as he can, storing it up like water for the shimmering day ahead.

The only good thing about deserts, Cassandra decides, is the color it paints Varric's hair.

He sits on a camp stool by his tent, still waking up, disheveled and unfinished as he always is before life finds him again. He holds one boot as if still unsure what to do with it, a ritual she enjoys more than she ought. Sometimes he finds things. Sometimes he does not. She watches without watching, waiting for the tally.

Powdered mica bites at the corners of her eyes. Her leg itches fierce and raw from a score of trailing bites. She sets everything into order while she counts his heartbeats because the world does not stop simply because she wishes for it to stand still.

In Skyhold he is copper and chestnut, dark under damp stone and flickering lamps, shivering in the cold, his words often as biting. He stays next to fireplaces and wood when he can and she wonders if he knows that about himself.

Here, the heat has melted nearly all his edges. Never pliable, never soft, she does not make that mistake, but as the days have trudged into weeks, she has felt his complaints warm even as the burr of his voice has smoothed. She wonders sometimes if she will ever be ready to go back.

Here, he is not copper, but gold. Cast in metal, dipped in sun. He puts on his boots, stands, wakes up a little more. Light dusts his arms molten, threads like ribbons through his hair, thick and bright.

His fair skin takes badly to it and she suffers Trevelyan to touch him in the mornings before they set out, slathering his skin with cooling protection. She wants to offer, wonders if there is enough courage in the world to say she wants to touch, wants to brush her fingers over that color, wants to blister in that fire.

In the mornings, Cassandra watches for as long as she can, holding memory close to her heart like a coal.


End file.
